Enter the Thief
by Mirae-no-sekai
Summary: There are ways to sneak my way through the Hunger Games, I suppose. Foxface's point of view for her Games.
1. Back Then

The day before I died, brother had insisted on watching long-gone murders on the static-crammed television set. According to him, it brought luck for the Reaping – a stale death warding off our new red blood away.

He ruffles my own red mane, disheveling it beyond the point which I thought possible. I hiss at him from the paisley blue of his wrinkled work-shirt, my allegedly gold eyes narrowing at his own yellowish brown pair and failing to shutter out how a flock of bird-like mutts shear and peck a hapless girl to shreds.

I've had enough of red, so I turn my head down to my lap, where another red head lays asleep, long braids tightly wound and eyes scrunched shut trying to drown out the on-screen screaming. Just my luck - things like these never seem to leave me.

I want to have brother's calm auburn hair. Brown with just the tell-tale ghost of fire-color that lets me know he's family. But little sister Audrey thinks that my locks can warm up the chill of the flimsy housing, so I'd refrain from trading the color anytime soon.

I still remember how I used to lather it with dust and hide it beneath a hood though. Because even with _tesserae_ to pad our stomachs, and brother Joel's job, we hunger a lot. But, thanks to me, I've managed to keep us from looking the starving family.

And now I can't sneak out for a breadwinning session – Joel's arm is resting on my head, taking a few millimeters off my slight frame; Audrey's fallen asleep on top of me and she sleeps like the dead. Parents' whereabouts unknown, but the factory's a given. Apart from their similar manes of reddish-burnt hair, I can't tell them apart from other adults. Same as most other adults can't seem to be able to pick me apart. But it is okay, I don't need to be visible. Not like brother needs to, much less how little sister wants to be.

Pebbles clatter against the window, a mercifully untamed mop of black-brown hair peeking from under the sill and a tall boy glaring daggers at the television. I barely turn back to glance at them, then sign _I'll be coming_ in motions as subtle as I can. I do so too well, as they redouble their attack on the window with small rocks and leaves. Joel gets tired, and rises to shoo them. I take my chance, and dart away – Audrey mumbles something about berries, but I can't listen to it too well. I don't notice Joel's motions, more concerned with making it through one of my secret entrances.

I bound outside, picking up a small branch and hurling it without much thought at the tall boy who is still glaring at the screen. Maybe he is watching the program as well – by now, I know another tribute has fallen, this time to a girl's lance.

My stick doesn't hit true like the projectile in the recording. It soars past his ear to strike the mouse-brown girl besides him and tangle up on her mess of hair. Well, it's a hit, and a headshot at that. Some bouts of hissing and whispered complaints and we scatter, agreeing on the same spot as always to regroup.

I pull my hood up, concealing my unfortunate shade of hair – another curse – and I saunter into a slightly transited street. Mouse-girl is climbing from rooftop to rooftop; tall-boy is sneaking around like an amateur.

I wish Tareesa was still here, but she got Reaped last year along with Caleb. I can't remember how they died, but I remember Caleb teaching me to sneak around and Tareesa's tricks. I use one of them now, inching closer to a rail-thin man slavering at the glimpse of freshly-baked bread being dropped into the storefront baskets. Without even looking at him, I place my hand into a pocket of his clothes and retrieve a couple bills of money; all the time, I'm as fixated as he is on the bread, even placing a hand on the sort of warm glass.

Mouse-girl nods at me in her reflection, and she knows that just for today the bakery is her special target – she is by far one of the 'cutest' ones in the gang, and can charm a storekeeper into giving her some surplus or samples. If not, the rest of us can use stealth to help ourselves in.

I dance away from the store, repeating the motions over and over. A couple candies here, a bar of soap from a bag there. Just enough to make the theft worthwhile, but not visible. I carry a satchel, but never fill it more than half-way up – else I risk another gang pick-pocketing me. I even enter a couple shops; acquiring bread, milk, oils, cloth…

A boy waves at me – a signal. I _should_ leave, regroup where always, but I don't. Teamwork isn't something I do often, and I know that none of them has kept an eye on me for the duration of my round. So I take another route back home, dropping off some of the loot into my room through the high window and then sneaking properly back to the hideout.

Which is nothing more than a copse of glorified trees near the wires that separate our District from the wilderness, where a gang of boys and girls group up after a steal. I'm greeted in as usual, through a half-witted code and '_Fox_' being called out in muted speech.

I'm sure I wouldn't have been '_Fox_' under more normal appearances, but I suppose I do look like one. And there is a fox on the hideout – a pelt that once upon a time belonged to a living thing. Next to arrive is Mouse-girl, then a boy I don't remember. The tall one who picked me up is perched on a branch, and I join him up there. Now comes the fun part – dividing the spoils between us. There are two leaders at the moment – Tareesa's elder brother known as 'Lynx' among us; a girl round about his age who we only know as 'Spark'. The gaggles of twittering teenagers quiet for a second, then we all empty our bags.

I see interesting things – fresh kills from those who decided to _hunt_ rather than _steal_ today, some cash, worthless trinkets that glimmer vainly among the miscellaneous supplies. Spark usually appropriates these: no one knows _why_, but she does. And because she is fair with the divisions, no-one cares.

The news about the Reaping goes around even though we all know about it. There is a high chance one or two of us won't be seen again, and the group needs to scan out for recruits in case _that_ happens. But no-one makes any contingency plan – one dies, and the family won't hear a peep about the gang's doings. If they didn't know when we were alive… well, now they can't care _too much_.

I remember returning home to another girl dying on the screen, her final battle against a swifter female armed with twin dirks. My satchel is still half-full, a couple of birds waiting within for dinner. Audrey lay sleeping on the couch, looking to all like the last dead girl but with scarlet hair instead of black. And Joel was perched on the armrest, eyes glued to the victor's grin… and the way she fell grateful to her knees when the hovercraft came to take her away and crown her a winner. He calls to me – Vermillion today, because it was Ruby yesterday and he loves calling me shades of red.

I don't remember him ever calling me by name. Or anyone, for that matter. Audrey is too young, and one of the more scatter brained boys called me 'fox' near her, so it stuck. But most of all, I don't remember sleeping well.

I remember complaining that I didn't get any berries at the division though. And I had made a mental note to go and steal some tomorrow…

_After_ the Reaping.

* * *

><p>A.N. – I know it's a kind of overused idea… But I'm a Foxface fangirl, so that's it. And I really do hope you enjoy!<p> 


	2. From Here On In

Morning broke in the _usual_ way – by making the dust on the paper I was reading shimmer in front of my eyes. I bat at the light, writhing to move my eyes into the speeding drops of shadow created by my hand, but Audrey gets there first. Or should I say: Audrey just finished blinding me with something.

I can guarantee it wasn't her gap-toothed smile, or the too-bright haze of red behind her. But it was effective – all sleep had been eradicated. And a lack of drowsiness meant a miniature famish, where I'd stalk to the cobweb riddled kitchen and rummage through for any fuel. My last raid had yielded appropriate food and goodies, but I still took an _ungodly _time to find the milk. Or anything else really – even with me and Joel filling it up constantly, we're five people living here.

Five from Five, in a non-five-numbered house with another five people to our right. Or they _were _five last time I checked… maybe that was last year, or the year before. I only know that one other kid had been Reaped from around this street, but I can't place the family and maybe it was theirs.

Doomed days _never_ begin like that. With all the ominous paraphernalia, I mean. Or the clichéd abhorrently sunny morning, birds chirping and all. But it did begin with a fairly bulky boy weaseling under the wire gates and into the sparse forest beyond, or at least going in that general direction. It began with the _other_ neighbor's cat leaping to our wall and nearly tripping into one of the 'secret' entrances. It began with Audrey warbling about some dream of hers and Joel half-asleep over a concoction we generously declare _tea_; Mother ransacks the shelves for something, Father is fiddling with the television controls in a lukewarm attempt to flick it out of the Capitol's main channel.

But no such luck when it's Reaping day – the omnipresent static is given a break to synthesized anthems and coverage of events we don't care to watch. Joel gets bored and hurls a nut, I think, at a control nearby, powering it off.

_He has a sufficiently nice aim_, we all like to think. _Think_, but not say or even _prize_. It might bring the slips with our names closer to the top, and Joel is already many times in already. I'm in that same situation, but to a lesser degree. Not by my own volition, but Mother's. Audrey had taken priority – and, seeing as we'll all be in once we hit twelve _anyways_, why not add my name to the ballot _one more time_? The chances won't be that high, and the odds are _ever_ in our favor.

But we keep on getting older, and last year it had been Tareesa and Caleb – two kids with names written over and over. I remember forgetting how many times my name had been in that day. More than one, at least – more than lucky five even. And we all had done our little charms to ward off our names – Mother wore her hair down in two braids, Father didn't shave.

I remember having to chase Audrey into her room and shoving her from my arms. Girl was nonsensically hysterical, and she made me swear to wear one of her pins now. I refused – if I was already going to look ridiculous in a glorified lab-coat of a dress, I wasn't going to add a child's decoration. But I lost out in the end – this year, Audrey got to fix my hair. And as any time she did so, I got a dirty ribbon tied to the top of my tail. Pink this year – she said it matched my red hair. I remember Joel calling me 'Crimson', the shade of red for the day. I wondered where did he get all the names, and why did it matter to him. I liked crimson – criminal began the same. I didn't like wearing it, as I was now, but saying it felt nice.

I remember sauntering out, feeling safe in the world. I managed even to 'liberate' some goods from fellow passersby, placing them inside the satchel I never thought to remove. On second thoughts, doing so might have been a better idea. Considering what happened later.

_No, I didn't formally die that day_. That came later. But on that unremarkable day, when I was wearing a not-_quite_-crimson lab-coat-knockoff of a dress, I got a death sentence delivered. But that came later on. _Now_, I was a girl with her hair tied back for once and a cheap leathery satchel. _Now_, I was a girl stalling in the square, surrounded by girls my age that'd gossip and chatter and just make nervous noise and nervous ambience. _Now_, I was a girl who was dutifully watching the overinflated screens set up in the square with a sinking, _fluttery_ feeling in my gut and wishing the worse (best) of luck to the random girl right next to me; _yes_, I admit willing death to a bored-pretending blue-eyed girl with a tawny pair of braids and a grey-pink ruffled blouse. I admit that I remember praying to all gods – whether they existed or not and whether they knew me by name or as 'fox' or shades of amaranth.

Despite all that, I really don't remember hearing my name. I only hear a rumble surge through the crowd and the camera panning over the stunned girls trying to find a glaringly egregious girl, red in the mismatched rainbow. Braid-girl, doom-wish girl leans back from me even, amazed at her so-very-close brush with death. I hear vaguely as Mouse-girl whisper-chains _it's Fox_ along the gaggle of females in the line, and as a stern-looking Peacekeeper extends a hand to lead or pull me out. I drop my satchel, signaling as inconspicuously as I can in this moment, and grin (_of all things_) when a classmate I know as Wasp from the gang picks it up.

I remember wanting it _back_ as soon as I got onstage to stand besides the saccharinely cheerful young-old man in a silver wig that rose in spikes. I remember thinking myself lucky enough when the boy they call is fairly unremarkable: about as slim as I am, a shade taller or so. A solid-looking pair of green-black eyes which dart around un-faking nervousness. Shaking slightly when he takes the stage even, but he conceals it well enough. A smattering of unruly freckles down both cheeks – a permanent blush of terracotta that comes out from nowhere and makes him look younger than his non-descript age.

I don't know him from any gang, and he probably never knew me anyways. Which is good enough, as I never got to place his mane and I doubt he got mine. I doubt anyone got it but my family, and they are probably swiftly deleting most of their links to me as fast as they can. A make-believe rousing charge of applause – and I _hate_ my district for this, because even though it's forced, they cheered for me as I got my head forfeit.

* * *

><p>The last goodbyes are as swift as the bout of clapping. My family, not tearful but looking as if an error had been made, as if I <em>really<em> hadn't had my name placed _that_ many times and they _could_ place a complaint for this. But they know I'm a goner, and can only wish me luck and lack of pain. Joel tried to joke, I remember, promising rosewood and redwood, with poppies and proper roses if he can. Audrey just hugs me and sobs, her already disheveled hair blooming undone and I can fairly liken it to the blood I'm sure I'll shed.

I remember joking right back, saying _I'm blood-red now_, but I really can't manage it like I did before, with a grin plastered because my satchel was relatively safe. I was shallow back then, and less so now.

The gang – or certain members of it – said their _farewell_s, _die well_s as well. Wasp and Mouse-girl, Sparks and Lynx. To the world, my friends; to me, colleague and special rookie and twin bosses. I make Wasp swear to finish training Mouse-girl, receive my last 'well done team' from Lynx. I find out what Sparks does with the trinkets we gather – I get a small array of dangly glimmering things which she pins to my hair and which I'll make sure to dump later when out of the cameras' all-encompassing spies. I can't remember how Tareesa's looked like, but she must've received something similar, and maybe _did_ trash them after all, or lost them in the Bloodbath. This, more than anything, leaves an impact: beyond getting a couple new recruits into team on my recommendation and dying wish…

I was a team member _once_. Even if it was more than half the time a half-hearted job, if I stole from them unashamed and I had only gotten in for an alleged friend's sake. I still remember vowing to win or die alone though – true to my style.

And _hell_, I was going to have to kill my allies later. _And_ let them see or hear of my skill. I've spent too many years under sworn secrecy for _that_.


	3. I Saw Dead People

I woke up on a train's gut, all sickly-pale lavender blue where my now-carmine hair stood out too much, a beacon of the girl to die. Then I figure that it's exactly what the abnormally blanched out colors are trying to do – even my bland companion would stick out like a sore thumb or something like so.

Still, I amble around, trying to figure out how to meld myself into the dappled lights. The colors blur, and I know I'll have a harder time doing an action that is _automatic_ in me – blues fade into a slight blush and grays are running around my vision. My hair is still bound in a fox-tail behind my head, and I try to reach the vivid strands.

My hand just catches a grey-pink ribbon, which I could've sworn was brighter before. Well, I'm just marking it off as being unaccustomed to the glare of lightning which is beyond nature or the reflections on cement and dust-glass windows.

I glare at my companion, which has semi-stalked up on me – I've heard him coming, but didn't pay attention to his actions. Better for _me_, he'll think I'm easy prey…

He's wearing what _I'd_ call a yellowish shirt, but something in my brain keeps telling me it should be red. And it oddly matches my hair, so I take it to be true enough. Maybe it's even on the blacker side, to make him more conspicuous and therefore usable by our trainers.

I can't remember much of them – I rarely really saw them, and they rarely saw me as well. My companion vouched for their attention, displaying minor feats: I've seen him hurl a couple blades, and catch them back without cutting his slender hands. I've seen him clamber on the lamps and sprint around for long on the absurdly spacious carriage. As for me, I've just been sneaking.

I'm better fed, but my old habits die hard: I've retrieved spare foodstuffs, nicked a hair-band from our female trainer and taken to wearing a large satchel at my hip. The charms I've received from Sparks I've hidden, and worn _maybe_ a time or two: the lunch together, boarding the train. Unlike what she did, braiding _yellow-blue-blackish-reddish_ in my locks, I've taken to pinning them to zippers. It's my version of practice – the beads jingle if I move to fast or abruptly, and priding myself on a silent tread I've made my best efforts to conceal those sounds.

A blonde girl with odd yellow-green eyes waltzes forwards, unsteady and almost twirling on her feet. I can't tell from where she is, but I probably shouldn't care. She has been my aide as of late, the blonde with the vacant gaze and glued lips. Maybe she is a drone, like the ones manning parts of the factory – I've never seen her act without an order, and I probably never will.

Yes, the train ride, which I've made so long in the retelling, barely lasted over a day. But back on track:

One of the things I do remember well is what happened after _Avox_ (as they called her) led me to the others. We glided there, borne either on a body too ethereal to clutter up with noise or one too trained to silence. My companion was busy showcasing himself, I recall. The female trainer – a young-looking woman, with a hair that I could barely call red even through my special sight and common brownish eyes, tall and slender – was barely keeping her gaze level with the capering teenager, more concerned with rebutting his skill.

"That throw was pitiful"

"Kick higher or a knife will do you in"

"Sweep the leg"

"All show and no fight"

The monotone was unnerving. I don't know if I ever saw the male trainer sneak up on my companion, but he was thrashing in a chokehold one second and he certainly wasn't like that before. Logically, I melded back into the pale paneling in the walls, willing my colorful hair away and concentrating on sneaking out.

I barely made it – as I left by the door, female-trainer caught sight of my following tail, and called out, a louder buzzing to my ears.

"She's _still_ there."

"Come here."

Well, I'm on their sights now, but I don't walk closer. I hover in range, scrabbling for anything I can use. Beyond the door, as a decoration, lie some pale candles which are within my reach. Long and slim, tapering at the end to a fine point. I imagine they were scented, but I didn't catch a whiff of them.

The male takes a step forwards – how he managed to sneak past me and the boy still recovering on the ground, with that muscular bulk of his, I don't know – and I pick one up. It soars forwards, catching him on the chest. Or it would've, had he not snatched it mid-flight with a hand. The other one I've thrown in half-desperation hits his stomach, I pocket a third inside my waistband.

Female dances up to me, a rare type of smile on her face. I can't make anything much out of it, but I find myself tracing my hand over the table surface hysterically, trying to come up with something to defend myself. Because she's a _killer_, and has probably seen the twenty ways you can be killed with a knife and added two more for good measure, has taken down boys twice my size and girls with actual combat skills. I am disappointed and somewhat scared when the next thing I point at her is the silver candle holder that was supposed to hold a candle like the ones I threw before. And she is still smiling, and my hand is shaking but I refuse to lower it. I reach a compromise; ready myself to throw it-

"She has it in her, Kailyn"

"Yes"

There are no more queues, and we sit to watch the current selection of tributes.

* * *

><p>I make a point of recognizing them, by <em>threat<em> if not by name or face. The couple from One – two blondes, looking fey but deadly. The girl has strong arms, the boy a perpetually bored look. _Bland if you are a fellow from One_, Female says, _but enthralling if you're not_. Two looks like the warriors of stories live – both are olive and copper skinned, the girl with a wavy mass of dark hair and panther-like poise. The boy looks like a bull – muscular, brutish and headstrong. Even if he wasn't a Career, I'd stray _far_ from him. Three, as usual, produced two ashen faced youths. The girl has sleek black hair, and looks scared out of her wits; the boy walks slowly towards the stage, not sure if this is real. _It is_, I want to tell him, _I'll kill you if I see you_, I want to add. From Four, another raven-haired girl, this one with the blue sheen of the faraway sea on her hair and eyes. The boy is short for a male and almost feminine… but he leapt with little effort up the platform. I recall thinking that, if One looked like fairies, Four looked like mermaids and tritons. Five is us. Six is a blonde girl who lacks the luster of One, and is even as _pudgy_ as we can get; the boy must be thirteen under the grime and clear-grey eyes. Those who say I've a cunning look about me, the boy from Seven has a similar look to him, all in shades of warm brown. The girl is astoundingly similar to mouse-girl from home, down to the halo of mouse-brown hair and the skittering looks. Eight produces _similar_ fare, but I suppose the girl could pose a challenge, if her tall build is an indicator of latent strength and if she makes it past day one. Nine is a tiny boy with a sixteen-year-old scowl and deeply set green eyes, which I write off as interesting. I blame myself for not remembering the girl, but I don't think she mattered – I can only think of _pretty enough to blend in a crowd_. Ten makes Male laugh – the boy is crippled, but there is a steadiness to his gait; the girl looks down on him, assuring herself that he is of no consequence. My companion seems to think so as well.

Eleven is haunting. The girl is a walking blackbird, light and airy and utterly _doomed_. But I smile at that – maybe, if it's the Cornucopia, she'll die painlessly. And Audrey will fantasize about getting to know that girl very _little_ – a year that a twelve-year-old was also chosen, I had to put up with '_Layla this_' and _'Layla that' _until the girl from Six was eliminated by some avian mutts. The boy is a bear – there is a stoic look on his face as he takes the stage, and he is as ageless as my companion. He looks like the boy from Two would have a hard time against him, and like he'll snap _me_ in half.

Twelve is a makeover. The same drunk mentor, the same garish female with colors in her suit that blur and dance in my sight – I am beginning to suspect that Joel always called me by shades of red _due_ to this – but the tributes have something else. Or the _girl_ does, the girl that lunges forward to shield what passes for a sibling that doesn't look alike with a blaze in her eyes. The boy is insipid – blond and bulky, and there is a stutter to his step that even the cripple from Ten could've hidden. But he also looks determined, and less scared than some of the others.

* * *

><p>By now, they should've watched the tapes as well. I wonder if I've made an impression; I realize it doesn't matter. It isn't them I have to impress. I have to be nil to them.<p>

What they can't see, they can't catch.

* * *

><p>I do remember <em>clearly<em> my arrival to the Capitol, all surrounded by mountains like the core in the reactors so common in our district. I'm still '_Carmine_', I'm still '_Fox_', but the Capitol doesn't know it. They don't have to – I'm a particularly interesting participant in a show to them. And we're still on the backstage, so they won't have to, unless they want. But there is nothing to me if I die, so unless I live, they won't.

_I stood a chance back then, I really did._ Or I _thought_ I did, like some of the people that bet on me.

There is a pointed absence of red – or of red that I see and don't blur in and out of other colors. Female is half-hanging out of a window, scanning the crowds. A fair number, not much but not too little. It's with what she has to work with, rather than currents and voltages. Garish colors and flyaway glimmers from tall spires that rise purposeless. Squat buildings holding gem-hued miscellanea. Bird-people and cat-people and fantasy beings striding along the streets, waving at the train as if it was an old friend. It probably was.

I don't remember waving at them, like my companion did for a minute or so. I remember returning and picking up any particular item I had liked, and wearing the satchel on the inside of my clothes when I left the carriage, concealing the bulk between my body and that of the boy besides me.


	4. The Make's Over

I've been here for hours, and my skin feels red. Feels, not looks – the latter means I'm just chilled because of a non-existent cold weather. Here, all is artificially perfect, from the electric natural lighting to the simulated crisp spring weather. But I feel the red of a bunch of scratches and itches on my skin, falls and stings accumulated all over until I'm hued pale terracotta. That's my color for the day – terracotta, of falls on bricks and dirt.

Not that there's any left – I've been here for what feels like ages but probably is closer to an hour or two. I should be squeaky clean, but the slim silver female who has been supervising this current stage hasn't deemed me appropriate. Maybe it was because of the slight fuzz on my body – a bit on my legs, under my arms. I'm lucky, apparently – I didn't have much to begin with, but all the products cause allergies on me.

My hair was another cause for pain – it's a veritable fox tail, the male designer with stenciled spirals all on his bald head and neck repeats over and over. It's been rearranged over and over, from bouncy curls like those Audrey can tame her hair into to a sleek red fall like the one I'm accustomed to, only much more visible and with a living gleam to it. I'm already dreading the hard labor that concealing this will eventually be, but it is not their issue. So I can't argue. And maybe, a curtain of red is appealing to these artificial people, and making it fall over my face will catch their attention. Silver is back, and Spiral greets her curtly.

She just assents, and hisses out orders with a metallic tang to her voice.

"An edge isn't smooth, oh my…"

"Her eyebrows! Did they come so fine, Aucius, or did you have your fun with that stencil?"

"Let me add a dab of that purple- no, that green!"

"Oh, I hope her dress has feathers this year! You see, there was this party at Jai's…"

"Oh please, fix those nails! They look like, like…"

"Talons! That's it. And no, she won't be this foxy girl, it lacks glamour! Romance!"

Aucius just nods, but for the last bit.

"Oh no, no. You see, Cassia sweetie, she is this sly sly girl, you know? With this ne sais quoi and this bizarre thing and all this, this…" He waves blue-green-yellow stenciled hands over my whole body, pointing at everything and nothing in particular. "You know?"

He is a bumbling fool, but I've nicked some hairpins and stickers from his clothes. Cassia – or Silver – is too far away for me to really take something from her, what with her darting back and forth. But the problem is I've nowhere to put my spoils – I yawn, and place the pins in my mouth. The stickers flutter to the ground, where I place my heel over them, concealing them as best as I can. My feet are too big, they say, but they can't do anything but surgery for that, and they're on a time issue here. A third joins them, another male with floor-length high-lighter red hair in a curly mass and a stylized mustache. He looks more ridiculous than the other two combined, and draws more attention – he is much bulkier and much shorter, and growls rather than speaks. I fear for myself – he can easily catch sight of the sloppily concealed sticker sheet, and I'm sure the tip of one hairpin is peeking from my lips.

He plucks a blue stick of lip-paint, and dabs at his face, then my hand. I'm no tissue, I want to say, but then the pins will clatter down. I don't want to be caught, much less used as a tissue, but the latter can't really harm me. So I let him puff up my hair and try to 'bring up' my dirty-amber-gold eyes by holding black discs with powder close to my face. I don't get his name, but he leaves with the extravagant duo from before, though not without pulling awful tricks with my eyes.

The next person to enter isn't a person. She's a living, breathing mannequin, all high-lights and dyes. This year, Alurmi is silver-and-lilac, from the elaborate hairdo to the decorations on her toes. Silver eyes, though I know they are contacts.

She takes a good, long look at me, and I shrink. It's futile, because there are no alcoves to conceal myself in and the only shadows are beneath my feet and I can't hide the gloss of my overly washed hair. Alurmi knows this, so she just slips her manicured hand under my chin and shoves it up.

"Chin up, sweetie. I'm preparing a winner here, not a fox, not a thief."

She spends too long fixing up my posture, and I don't get to see a sunset blush over the Capitol in the detail I would've preferred – the glimpse from the high windows is tantalizing enough to keep my eyes glued to it and the blinks away, so I'm close to tears and all the lilac in her clothes is faded off and diffracted by the time I'm even standing how she likes it.

Head tall, shoulders back, neck swan-straight. Legs slightly apart, hands swinging loose to my side ("Don't clench your dainty hands, they're not claws"). Some of my hair veiling some of my face, oh, you look so coy and intelligent, but I can't see that well and I am constantly pulling it back discreetly with my fingers curved. Alurmi likes that motion, so she lets me continue, but the texture is so slick, it can't remain behind my ears, even if they sort of stick out. There is a smug look on her face – she's probably planned this, and I hope it won't stick for the arena.

I then spend long hours trying on costumes. Long trailing robes of silver and white which catch the starlight, and I seem to pass a current along my skin – "oh, you look sickly…"

Black pants, chased in neon-light blue and weaving a blazing top from that – "No, no, no – tacky and _Three-ish_!"

Another dress, this one short. Ice-blue, with small spider-webs of gold woven in. Some gems greet me from within the folds and it is Alurmi's steady gaze that's keeping me from pilfering all of them. It's longer on the back, reaching almost to my heels – she clucks in disapproval at that trivial fact. As with the first robe, a current seems to surge across my chest, sparkling off into the tail and fizzing out with my darting motions. My designer sounds pleased though – the red of my hair is garish but not off-setting, "some glitter will make it better though".

The trio from before return; the same 'instructions' are passed on to them. I am scrubbed, arms and legs, with some glimmering cream. My face as well, and so much eye-shadow goes into my eyelids that I wonder how am I even blinking without displacing a cloud of blue and gold. Lipstick is added – mercifully clear but for more of the sparkling. My hair receives a similar treatment, nets and faux-diamonds peppering the red, so that I seem to glimmer with the pent-up energy of a District who probably doesn't care. I hope I get to nick some of them off, though. Then it's braided and rearranged on top of my head, an artistically deranged messy bun, with a strand loose to my mid-back fixed with extensions and the others falling at random and 'improved' as seen fit. I don't look like me, much less like 'Fox' or 'Terracotta', but the Capitol doesn't know that. Or care, but I'm a good show, I suppose.

I take the elevator down under heavy escort, not paying a whit of attention to my normally insipid companion. And I really don't want to – he'll be a scientist, or another form of energy which is as much of an art project as they could make it. And the screens will show him to me anyways.

* * *

><p>A.N. – Chariot ride next chapter… thanks for reading, and see you around!<p>

By the way, could you please leave some comments? Is she a Mary-Sue? Thoughts? Ideas for how to express the other Tributes? Any particularly good ideas might be used : )


	5. The Black Parade

I have a _very_ clear recollection of getting on the carriage for the tribute parade. Mostly that it was tinted with overwhelming _fear._

I stole a glance at my partner? My circuit-like dress flares to life. A flash in the distance? I echo the light back. The rolling motions of the dappled white-gray horses with pale yellowish-gray mane make me shimmer and radiate, and there is simply too much attention on me. I _can't_ stay like this, sitting atop the horse. Too visible, and I'm sure I'll fall, where the whole crowd will catch the fading froth of simulated sparks. I can't even mad-cap grin, like I've done before – I'm afraid that the glitter splattered on my face will light up, and I'll be even more visible.

_Damn_ the need for sponsors, _really damn it_. Because the camera has panned – for now – on the silken, silvered visage of the One girl, waving princess-like to a enraptured crowd. No, it's the boy, who looks both herculean and young, silver as his co-rider, and he is merely looking ahead – _I'll be back here_, that look says. Fairies in their procession, a miniature wonderland from a District of luxury.

Their silver glow catches on me, ripples flow across the fabric. It looks like electrified moonlight, and is too shiny for the dreary twilight. I swing my long legs, and flop my head forwards. A cascade of glimmering from the gem-dusted nets on my hair, but at least part of my face is co- not again, too slick to even stick to a position.

Now it's Two on the spotlight, and the sadist grin on the boy is a certain favorite – he looked like a bear before? Now he's a mountain, all proud in armor-like garb, but with the face uncovered. He says something, I think, and it looks as if all should rumble in answer, even when the sound is lost to the cacophony milling around him like acolytes. The female looks statuesque – the same grin, more feline maybe. Long hair blowing in the breeze, a banner to rally towards. A more fitted set of armor in her case. She gets a rose tossed her way – I want that rose, because it's my color, a deep _red_, but I won't challenge the mountain's spawn for one. Two catches it in the air, twirling it before simply letting it fall. Her sponsors mean nothing here – _try harder for our favor_, they call.

Maybe I could hide there, in duns and warm browns – but not with them lions. I try to wriggle myself backwards, I'm sure there _has_ to be a shadowing overhang or a drape somewhere here…

Three is a shining display – there are millions of lights embedded in their carriage, and the metal-foil garments they both wear reflect off into the audience. Paneled shirts and skirt, colored details – they are the chips from the machines, walking among people. I envy them – rather than call even a _speck_ of attention to themselves, they seem to fade into the mirrored carriage, even when their faces and posture are replicated _on_ and _on_ in the metal.

Four – here comes the panic, because we're there, at the very corner of the camera's sight, and I am like the small fireworks blooming – tiny, a group of fireflies… _visible._

But they are as much of mermaids as I thought them to be originally. The boy who leapt so high is perched almost on a decoration, flaunting his balance and letting long-for-a-male hair flutter in the wind. He cuts an imposing figure, and I find myself gawking at him, the boy smiling at admirers-to-be like a sailor from the stories. And the girl, calmly sitting wrapped in an aqua dress, with little make-up and tattoos glistening up her arms and legs, is the sea raised to compete. They are imposing in the way a vast body of water is – not immediately dangerous, but there is a _promise_ of it…

Then it's us in the eye of the storm. I see my fellow Five caper and dance, gaining instant attention to his slender frame who has more energy than some of the others blundering behind us. I can't see his freckles – the make-up must have deleted most of them, and the glitter is scattering the rest. I stand very still, hoping to God the cameras won't catch me, won't reveal my awful way to hide under what passes for an awning in this caravan.

But if they've spied on me from Four even, when I was a group of dancing fireflies, right now in my cage I'm a sitting duck. I glance at myself, and I seem panicked, eyes darting all over and my hair mussed. I turn briefly to one of them, my face away from another and half-veiled, and I smile at the fact that, from most angles, my face isn't clear. But from _one, or some_ I smile quite clearly, and I'll try to avoid such an expression from here on in. Don't want people to really catch me, do I, the thief?

We pass, and I exhale in relief. The rest are a blur – I am in no more risk of a re-capturing by the cameras, and therefore they are of little-

Twelve _burns._ Literally – they _are_ the fire that was teased at in their Reaping. The girl, who I assumed would be stoic and stunning, is waving carefree, and I suspect their hands are clasped. The crowd reaches and surges forwards to trap a smile or a blown kiss, and they are miles more awe-inspiring than their usual favorites.

Maybe Two is regretting simply letting their gift-roses fall after a glance and a satisfied feline grin. They don't show it, masking it in their pantomime strength and fury.

As for Five, my companion has gone into a frenzy. He spins and whirls, playing Moon to their fiery splendor, and the wiring and beads from our costumes seem to have overloaded with neon-crimson and his dance. I swat at the decoration, trying to subtly dull myself with my hands, but I _can't_. It's beyond my pitiful power, and like this I can't meld into the translucent shadows of our carriage. Three seems somewhat relived – the flame might have brought them into enough relief for someone to notice, and the fairy-faces from One have gone sour and vengeful. Them, in their silver-moon regalia, are upstaged by a gold radiance that is simply _below_ them. I can only imagine the exact way that they are going to enact this slight – and how to avoid it.

The camera lingers on them, yet it still makes a valiant effort to catch us all on its all-seeing lens. I see myself for two or three blinks in the gold-red reflection, then fade off to the smoldering gape of the boy from Six and a blank look from the blonde girl, who looks even more boring in the firelight. They are probably seeing the silver parachutes fly away from them, with all their suppl-

Supplies from _sponsors_. Which, let's be honest... nah, I'll not say so yet.

Ah well… I've always said I'm a thief. And where best to ply my craft, than in the Arena?

Well, Twelve has bought me a second of relief and a lot of possible pain…

But it isn't my problem now, in the camera's glare. Soon as I get off the hook, I'll worry.

For now, I'll watch my companion try to regain the little attention we had before. But I don't help him – I don't think I'll be able to.

Same as I'm not able to hide here.

* * *

><p>A.N. – Finals are over!<p>

On other comments, thanks to Theaterlover13 for your comment – I'll try to flaw her a bit more…

And to all of you incredible readers: thanks for being here! And please, leave any suggestions and comments :)

See you around!


	6. Knife's Edge

I now swear that elementary knowledge such as knife-throwing, knot-tying and various other nuances of the arts of survival _should_ be taught in the cobweb ridden, crammed schools all over Panem. Maybe in the Career Districts they _do_ get those courses – but I will vouch for training all of the prospective participants for these Games.

Maybe, that way I wouldn't be _scared_ of the way that the feline-looking female from Two keeps producing blade after blade _after blade_ from her hands and sends them in flawless lines and arcs to the well-punctured heart of a dummy. Maybe she is more feline than she already seems, and I'm seeing some lethal evolution of retractable claws.

Meanwhile, the boy from her District is reducing a hanging wood pole to finger-thick ribbons with a sword – his companion will have excellent cover to hurl her knives, but she _might_ lack targets if he's leading the Bloodbath. A girl, blonde, is entertaining herself with bow and arrows: while not flawless by any stretch, she can outrange the knives and even the small pebbles hurled by the slingshot that the blackbird from Eleven is wielding better than expected. I assume she is from One – she keeps calling to another sculptural boy on the other end of the Training Area who is, just for a laugh or two, learning to build fires. He's trying the fire on for effect – to see how red and gold will look on camera – I sorely hope the Capitol doesn't like _that_ play of firelight on his face, though not even I can say it is displeasing.

Both from Three are separate, but the looks on their faces are almost carbon copies. The boy is glued watching the fluid motions from my companion whirling and striking with two elongated daggers – apparently, neither of them knows it's more show than strength, but if it can instill fear in the boy from Three…

The girl is mumbling her way through an edible plants test, and I refrain from marking her as a target – too many of her choices were incorrect, even though I haven't figured out why, with all the blurs and sheens of color. Some distance away, the girl from Four has crafted an intricate knot…

A flick of her hand, a moment of unfurled rope, and there is a scythe soaring through the air, to land delicately in her outstretched hand. It could've been _any_ weapon – that one had been the closest with the hilt up. I steal a glance at the handful of throwing knives peeking from in between my fingers, mirroring the grip from that previous girl, then look at the long rope. I could lose them in a breath, and even get my hands wounded if the mermaid so much as glances my way - and she _could_, not to say _would_, in a second.

I throw them, with all of my pitiful strength, and watch some of them clatter to the ground. Three hit the dummy, one within the target and the other two stuck deeply in the material. I try to pluck them out, but I can't – a curse, and I hear the tinkling laugh from the surrounding Careers.

Well, I'll make a point of not letting them see me _again_. And I'll leave a decent knife-thrower if it's my last action – which it might as well be.

Meanwhile, the boy from Four is putting himself through as many combat stations as he can – I've seen him with a mace, long sticks, a lance… he doesn't excel at any, but he isn't mediocre at any either. Six – the boy is trying to start a decent fire, the girl is… somewhere, cowed and wary. Seven I haven't seen much- wait, the boy just plunged a small ax into a _wall_ with a curse, and he retrieves it with astounding ease, while the girl is slowly clambering up a rigged stand with small stones and handholds. The boy from Eight is somewhat survival-smart, and has managed to produce enough hooks and recognized many plants as safe. The girl doesn't have the strength I assumed from her appearance, but she is certainly fast.

Nine – the boy is now scowling at a presumably light sword for not being able to follow the motions of the beast from Two. The haunting girl from Twelve just strays around from station to station, always one or two away from the Girl on Fire from Twelve. Seriously, I feel like the couple from Twelve _deserve_ a title, similar to my usual fare, but I haven't found one for each of them yet beyond the costumes. The boy from Eleven is slow moving, but he wields a mace like an extension of his arm – and behind him lie crumpled dummies and wood shavings scenting the dusty air. I can only imagine how a person would be, made of less resistant elements and dyed in the deepest lifeblood. Despite my obvious needs for food and other sundry items, I'll make a point of straying as far as possible from him - very nearly as much as a Career.

I keep throwing knives, carefully now. Targets to _steal_ – I have them. To _avoid_? Too many – One, Two, Four… the male from Eleven and the fiery girl from Twelve, to be sure. A knife soars towards me and I drop like a stone, rolling to the side and catching a still frame of the girl from Two smiling in my direction, one of her hands pointing to my dummy. She isn't even looking at me, maybe caught a taunting glimpse of red from the corner of her eye, but the blade is quivering barely some inches from my head. And I'm sure she wanted it there - to scare me, and she has.

I'm _doomed._ It'll be a knife to the back of my neck, or an arrow to my lightly protected chest. Forget mutts and starvation - I'm prey, and I _act_ like it.

I just cower, inching away from the striking figure that the knife-wielding nymph _cuts_. But I remember she's a good shot, and just bolt for my never-at-risk life.

In my comfortable room - too spacious, too bright - I curse at not grabbing a blade, and stuff the pockets of my clothing with anything I can manage - it isn't much, it'll be swept away tomorrow, but the weight of stolen items anchors me here.

* * *

><p>Two days later, I'm <em>still<em> doomed, though maybe to a slightly lesser degree. I hurl the knives with an overly exaggerated motion – I never managed to pull off the fluid subtlety of the other practiced at knife-throwing – and watch them all hit, though with pretty similar results to those of day one. I've made a point of shadowing the Careers and those from Twelve – they haven't caught me in those two days, and if they have they haven't cared. Eleven is interesting to copy as well – I could guarantee food for myself from what they've picked. The girl has recurrently picked some berries, and I'm sure that out on the Arena I'll be able to recognize them as well.

My companion has never stopped capering though – maybe the weapons are different, and he is as good as I am with a moving throw of blades, but I doubt anyone doesn't know of all his tricks. Well, maybe his antics will buy me time out there – time to pick up something and run like hell itself is on my heels. Or the boy from Two – whichever happens to make it more painful.

Hopefully, they'll think as little of me as they did here. Only way I'll make it through the Bloodbath I guess – by sneaking through.

A reddish glimmer from the charms I received so not-long ago catches my eye. I laugh, not caring overly for the sets of attentive ears and eyes. Why should I now, when I've managed to duck and weave effectively, when there are some slim blades hidden in the clumsily-made braid I wear and miniature packaged sweets concealed in my sleeves.

I'm still 'Vermillion'; I'm still 'Fox'. And I'm still in the game.

For the whole of this brief prologue at least. Or that's what I've liked to think, buried beneath a building with an arsenal at our fingertips and a clock steadily ticking my last away.


	7. Crammed Together

Between the Interviews and the presentation to the Gamemaker Panel, it all goes down in blurs and shades of red or gray. I mostly remember going by the more exotic shades of red – I had been 'Alizarin' for the interviews, 'Carnelian' for the exposition of my skills. I sure do remember that Alizarin Fox sounded almost regal for a pair of nicknames mashed together – Carnelian worked as well, and maybe more of my preferred chromatic names would have also fit.

My presentation might have as well as been knife throws and muck-ups of knots and fires. At least two of those went well enough – I recall the crackle of orange-yellow flames clapping at me in slow condescending curves and a half decent pair of knots I wasn't sure how to use. I had clawed hands for sure though. Not the fluid grace of the girl from Two, nor the exceedingly posed motions from the boy who went right before me but…

It could have gone worse, my dance with silver knives at a dummy or two. At least, if the memory ribbons of wood and hopefully lethally pierced chests were any indicators.

I get an average score for an average girl with blazing beacon hair. It isn't the lowest – maybe it was a five or a seven. My partner got much the same, and I hope to high hells it was due to his elegant dagger wielding and not to some skill that I didn't notice. Not that he had many, but he for sure withheld from redundant training, or did them when I was focused on other details – Eleven's gathering, the far-and-few fishers, carbon-copying combat skills which I may or may not have when the situation calls.

* * *

><p>As for the Interview…<p>

I really didn't understand what they wanted of me, save that my angle was something along the lines of subtle and mysterious. "Fox-like", Male called it with his face so very close to mine to see flecks of gold-green in his remarkably unremarkable eyes.

As a thief, I wanted those instead of the maybe-not-entirely-yet-possibly golden ones I got that made it a hassle to hide it from store-keeps who will not see me if I'm careful. And the angle is redundant for me, when I want nothing more than to slink back of camera and into my corner with a laden satchel or nesting uncomfortably in a tree. It's maybe even obvious, with my fox evoking appearance, but it's what Male wants.

"After making such a… an event, of the Parade…"

I understood fairly well. So foxy and 'mysterique' as Audrey would say, with maybe the snappy comments from Sparks or Joel that I used to hear so long ago. Dodge all you can, answer some just to get them in.

I still didn't hear much of my name, and stuttered looking around until I saw myself in the pan of the camera and being beckoned over so my three minutes could start. By a powder-blue man decked in jewels which I would've liked to nick, if the orange-red robe I was clad in wasn't so restraining and had any pockets. Or if it didn't mean touching him, right in full sight of the people I've stolen from.

They'll catch me that way, and I'm not exactly sure that a Victor's crown equates to a Capitol-issued pardon from past crimes. Or even if they haven't caught me already, and aren't reporting because it allows them to ask for more denied goods.

So I dart and dodge around questions, fidgeting in my dress and mercifully not-so-tall heels and discreetly pulling an auburn-red curtain over my eyes and concealing the hairpin with my palm. Female will berate me for this later – but if I wear my hair like this in the Arena…

No, she'll berate me anyways about hampering my senses, in that icy monotone of hers that hovers above a hiss. Male will laugh and glance at me – it's even more subtle, and a guarantee that I'll be playing doll for them in the Arena if I want a scrap to fall from one of those silver parachutes. Providing I've at least been enough of a lucky shot to get alive out of the Cornucopia.

Male knows – he looks the part at least, and as a Victor his poker face is the stuff of legends. He knows I've a slim, slim chance of slipping through.

* * *

><p>It's Alurmi and not the trio of her assistants who comes to me in the inane brief minutes from before rising into the Arena. Alurmi, and not icy Female who's sure to send so many oracular eyesight-knives into my back to give me an arsenal against the raring Tributes. Or even Male, with the mocking reassurance of impending destiny.<p>

I wish it was either of them. Or Wasp. Wasp would know, the stony-eyed girl who was the first to pick up on Mouse's call and then swear to pick her under her wings. Hell, she should be here, and I should be snug while the Amazonian girl just buzzes around the Arena with some daggers or even blow-darts. She's almost a weapon master, and Wasp's her nickname for a reason-!

Alurmi shoves me - with clear distaste on her features, mind you – into a god blessed bland pair of pants, heat reflective baggy jacket with a hood and no zipper, extremely supple sneaker-boots which are fast becoming my favorite bit of this comforting attire. She waves a wrist up in front of my face, teasing with leather thongs which will not be binding my hair – even when I've already done it up in a long braid which is coming apart near my face. And going back on her joking taunts, Alurmi gathers the fluff near my face and nimbly pulls it back with the thong woven into my hair…

Along with a long silvery needle.

"Oh so… sneaky!"

Yet with a wink, she slips it back in. And back out. Lather, rinse, repeat. I'm allowed food and water now, so I gobble all down and wash it generously with water. Which I can't sneak out as well, even when I tried to do so with the small packaged sweets. They are now waiting in the discarded garment from before, same as Spark's trinkets. Save for the spare ones stuffed in my socks – which probably will taste odd, but well.

Soon enough, I'm in a rising platform. Like the aliens from those movies we got once in a blue moon, where the beam would slowly, inexorably pluck a hapless victim up to miscellaneous, vague alien torture.

Or, as any good Tribute can tell you, 'Alien' Hunger Games.

Take away the 'Alien' part now. It won't do here. We're kids after all, thrilled to be here in this movie of sorts…

But damn it, we're not incompetent goons in crappy costumes. I intend to die with dignity – or rather, live with glorious nightmares.

And not die as the rickety platform hums and whirrs a dirge as it brings me up to meet my (Game)makers.


	8. Sun's Turn

First thing I notice in the otherworldly Arena is the greenery. Clouds of it reaching up to blend into an impossibly tinted sky and so much more populous than the slight and stunted copses back in Five. Then the need for a strategy bounces into my mind, and I very quickly scan everything. No weaponry in my braid anymore, and actually managing to sneak in anything was almost impossible. To my immediate right is the crippled boy, my left holds the girl from some District – I can't really match her up to a Career, but she is leaning forwards and looks like a fair sprinter.

I don't want a knife in my back as soon as I land, and the ground spread out below me doesn't hold any weapons I can distinguish from my perch. Mercifully, the Careers are almost all a good ways away from me-

False, because the boy from Four is in a stance more polished than that of the girl to my left and setting his sights on… a lance, or something of the sort… at the Cornucopia's flanks. And there, the tell-tale glint of metal promises more possibilities for attack. And he is two people away – it's me, the cripple, another girl stiff in her last perch and the predatory boy.

_No need to worry_, I chant in my mind, _just manage to clear out with something_. It sounds like my trainer's voice, it sounds like the advice Joel would issue to the tributes locked in the television's eternal combat. But I can't discern much from my position, and scan the spoils for knowledge…

Bingo. There's some bread, and even some jerky, spinning towards my left, an outwards spiral. To top it off, I can sort of see the boy from Eleven, even more towards the tail of the Cornucopia, and imagine the land rolling away beneath him.

I'm a fair tracker, from all the sneaking I've done back home through messy gardens and littered streets. While nature's obstacles will be a hindrance, I suppose someone like that boy would also leave a visible disturbance along his path – and knowing his abilities from my time spent observing in the training period, I'm certain that he knows, at least, to provide for himself in the wilderness. Cue the thieving, and prayers to varied deities I'm not sure if they exist for hiding places.

I see the girl next to me take her last changes to posture, and briefly try to mimic her, feet shuffling around confused-

I drop. The distance wasn't too high – barely a meter or so upwards, a dramatic measure, but I hadn't propelled myself too well and find I'm barely further than the height of that thing, lacking any momentum. But I run – cursing mentally the fact that velocity was never one of my particular strengths and just focusing on the pathetically small piece of bread in front of my outstretched hand.

I miss it, because someone else – maybe the girl from before, or anybody, lunged for it first. I claw at its hand, shortening the distance to a kick-

A dull thunk of a body hitting the ground and my feet finding purchase on its back to continue surging forwards, the seizing up as my weight falls and bruises, the way I just grasp a couple scraps of the jerky seen a (second of an) eternity before. Then it becomes sprigs of something tall enough to whisper against my eyes and small, scrawny trees – some of them bearing thick trunks, some laden with leaves and hopefully something that the boy I was meant to chase after can recognize as edible. I can't see him through the foliage – yellows blend into the blues and greens, and browns are omniscient, but-

Broken-off stalks and displaced branches. Those are people-signs, to follow and learn from. I need not worry about concealing my own tracks – they merge here, and even then, I am slight enough to attempt ducking and weaving between them.

* * *

><p>The squalls of battle behind me have quieted, although if it's due to the distance or merely elapsed time I can't know. Further ahead, the trail turns and loops, sinking into the odd tree copses and spots of darker stalks of whatever.<p>

A flurry of steps and my heart collapses into itself, praying to find a weapon or a means of concealment, when a simple dusty brown rabbit blurs past my feet. I try and fail to kick it, and then reconsider trying to backtrack along its route – but it's much too small, and even harder to actually see. But my brain hurries to conclusions – it ran away from a_ tribute_, not a predator as it is broad daylight yet; the end of my road leads directly to the behemoth of a boy, a rabbit warren can certainly hide a fox.

The _animal_, not the girl who hasn't taken real steps into the wild before this, so I just slowly weave into the foliage and follow the trail from behind a thick veil of plants. The going is hard – roots swim to trip me up, and even the trees can sneak up on you if the dappled shadows aren't concentrated enough. What kills me is the thirst, as it doesn't look to be a particularly verdant patch of the Arena, and the path I'm following winds around so much that my conviction has been sweated along with my water reserves.

* * *

><p>The shadows blend and dance together, heralding the falling night, cannons punctuating the twilight and punching holes into the peek-a-boos of sky. I've landed myself in a copse – there are some of the really sturdy-looking trees and a gathering of tall and slender ones that are certain sanctuary for those who know and can climb so high. Root systems beneath me are a tangled mass, offering the chance for predators to blend in, and maybe a shallow hollow or two among the mulch and fallen leaves that's Tribute sized. I counted eleven cannons, which is a severe dent to my chances – I'm probably going to require someone else to survive, and scavenging supplies is harder when the most reliable source is that well-protected.<p>

I debate for a moment, then choose to risk a climb. The tree I pick isn't dead centre, or particularly thick, yet it's still one of the small number that boasts a wide girth. There is a good cover above, and it certainly is less dangerous than sleeping in the ground – far as I've seen, all of the other Tributes are as land-bound as I am with their weapons, and predators hunting rabbits like the one I saw ages ago are less likely to pick a tree for the night.

I kick and scrabble at the astoundingly smooth trunk, pulling off handfuls of small leaves and scratching my hands with the bare branches I've snapped and twisted. My efforts allow me to reach another handhold, one of my legs swings uselessly after losing its anchor, the other is stretched into a tiptoe and all that barely allows me to reach another place.

It's much harder than the easy maneuver that the hunters and gatherers of the troupe exhibit back home, almost gliding into position and even when laden down with supplies. But I somehow manage, even if I'm barely higher than head level for someone Joel's size – and the boy I was following probably rivals him in height. But I'm exhausted, and exerting myself more just to reach a nesting place I'll have to abandon come morning isn't too tempting an idea.

I remove a shoe and try moving my feet to check for the candies I was supposed to have smuggled in. The feet are numb and almost disconnected from my body, but a small bump does pop up and I fumble with the clothing to retrieve it. The taste is odd, but it's better than nothing, and I certainly can do with drinking saliva… I guess that's what the explorers did in the really old times, even before the wars.

The stalks standing sentry nearby rustle and creak, and I try to scurry into the curling tresses of the tree and end up back to the trunk and leaves crunched into my vision, leaving the silhouette of whoever arrived vague and blurry. He – it's too big to be a girl unless she's a Career, and even then the figure is too bulky and apparently unarmed – settles down far away enough from my hiding spot to calm me, but close enough to ensure that, whether I choose to stay or flee, anything can give me away and am, for lack of a better term, treed.

But there is a small pile of something near it, and I can assume it's food, or maybe even water. Weapons are too much to hope for, and even risky, considering my precarious position. But I can probably rely on the fact that he has to sleep sometime, and I'm good at pulling all-nighters, although I'm nearing my limit on how many I can go in a row.

I take a break from watching him for the sky, as the faces of the dead are broadcast in full detail. Eleven faces beam down from the skies, and I count off my threats and lifelines on my fingers and almost-mouthing the numbers. A girl from Three I wouldn't have used anyways, the boy from Four so close to me. I wonder who did him in, then hope he or she got eliminated as well, as killing a Career is a feat of legend. My partner, whose antics probably did him in. No one from Six or Seven made it – bye cunning boy, sleep well little mouse. Neither did the boy from Eight survive, and Nine counts two losses. The last one to go is the girl from Ten, and I'm amazed at the fact that the cripple made it and not his companion. Somewhere in the backdrop, I remember her sneer at the boy back at the Reaping, and irony rings across my brain.

Unknown-person sighs and sinks down into a curl, appearing to sleep, back to my tree and sight lost towards the direction in which he arrived. He hasn't picked the shelter of the trees – and I'm thankful, as this narrows down my options. No Careers, and I can safely discard the girl from Eight, same as the one from Twelve. It's either the cripple or the bull-boy from Eleven or the bulky one from Twelve – I stand a chance if I manage to sneak towards him and relieve him of some supplies.

There is a lack of silence – spells of wind and insistent insect song are laced liberally around the space and the air grows heavy with night-bird calls and small animal steps. I'm more proficient at dropping from a tree than climbing them, and the landing is smoother and more silent than the climb – certainly, the cover of leaves and earth makes for a better landing, and the sound of my footfalls is masked by the constant noise.

It is ominous in the way it can as easily mask another approaching foe, but for the moment I am immersed in the way I make the shadows and the odd stubborn stalk sway, timing my movements and muffling the sound of my walk with the rustle of leaves and the soft beating of a rabbit's run. The style isn't my own – I go for casualness rather than predatory movements, but I've learned all manners and practiced often enough when the streets weren't as packed. I ghost to him more than I walk, and to my relief I have gone unnoticed. The pile he had consists mostly of glistening round berries that could be any color in the darkness, strips of what seems bark, seeds obtained from who knows where , heads of stalks that both look identical and differ from those massing at the edges of this gaggle of trees. Stones are intermingled, to add volume and hold off thieves – the loss of a stone would be an obvious giveaway. I hurriedly pick and snatch at many, taking care to not overly disturb the pile or grab a stone. In the end, I have a fair amount, spread between those I've packed away in my jacket, socks and obviously my mouth. The pile looks much the same – it was large before, and it still is so now. I only can steal to sustain myself for the moment, after all, with no satchel to store or cache to fill.

I repeat my stealthy approach, only this time away from the sleeping figure I've chosen to not recognize – it's a superstition of mine, and even here I cling to the small details that make me someone. I also stray further from that, edging over to a far edge of the gathering of trees and making sure we don't lie in a perfectly straight line as best as I can. This is done less silently, as I keep stumbling and near-tripping over the roots-

I actually fall, over and under a sort of thick cover of leaves and small snapped off twigs into a depression likely made by the roots. It's larger than I am, but my crash has left a hole on the covering. I rig something out of the larger branches and hope that my food wasn't squashed and my makeshift ground looks legit and not like I've fixed it up in a hurry.

By now I'm tired, and in the deep dark cast by the plant matter on the night sky I fall asleep.


	9. At a Calm Pace

I woke up sore, confused and with the tip of my nose and fingers unexplainably cold. Normally, that would've been any morning back home – me nestled in a tangle of blankets to make a magpie proud and chill nights refusing to yield to the filtering sunlight. And I'd roll the flimsy linens off with a crisp sound and stretch so far I'd touch the scribbled-on walls.

That obviously didn't work out so well, although someone at the Capitol must've gotten a good laugh at my expense. The light is that of pre-dawn, and the length of my legs seems an awful long distance to be trying to see. The spongy scent of leaves and grass weighs down on me, and debris from last night still clings to my hair. I don't bother with taking that off – as it is, redwood tresses would be a clear target and a hood on would make me sweat off all of my hard-to-find water. Speaking of water… my hands flutter around, checking anywhere- oh, there they are. I pop a berry into my mouth, knowing them as safe. The boy was as weaponless as me, and I couldn't think of any way to make good use of a toxin or poison without at least a knife. I fiddle around some more with my caches. After that, I sorely wish that the boy I mooched off had decided to gather more berries instead of the maybe-barely sticky-sweet bark. I have, at tops, slightly over a handful of them and they are my sole source of fluids as it stands.

But I can't rely on him that easily, or at least not unarmed. If I am surprised in the act, my only choice would be making a run for it, and he'd probably be in better condition than I am, even if I can manage to clamber and swear my way sufficiently up a tree. He'd just siege me. That decided, I steal out of my little impromptu hideout. Once I'm out, I kick and mix at the debris, hoping that this could conceal any tell-tale strands of redwood hair. I don't know if they could pass as being a genuine fox's.

Hey, maybe I could meet my nickname sake; take one down if I can. That would be something nice to show at the meetings – Fox in a fox-fur anything, from the Arena. The hunting teams often end up wearing mismatched stuff from their kills – pants patched with 'artisanal' cured leather; hair bands made from hides and decorated with feathers that they swear came from a bird within District borders to the Peacekeepers. Not the thieves though – it is kind of dangerous to wear something liberated without the due alterations done first, and even more dangerous to steal something that cannot be destroyed (or consumed) at a moment's notice, much like the berries or the bark strips.

My task finished, I lope back to his campsite and note with well-concealed glee he is still asleep, or at least unaware of my woefully harmless presence. I can now take a bit of a look at him when I'm not being a criminal. Frankly, I don't like what I see – he's the massive boy from Eleven, all muscled bulk.

So I_ did_ manage to catch up to him when I flew from the Cornucopia. And my food is safe to eat – but he's as dangerous as us non-Careers get, and I doubt that striking an alliance will be a possibility. Much less when I can't stab him in the back. Sleeping, however, he looks peaceful and much like a Joel dragged through dark powder. Chocolate maybe. And he looks so warm, though that may just be his size and rich skin.

I am beginning to catch sight of shadows waking up on the ground, and they signal the end of this brief lull. I pick a couple more berries with the same artful care from his large pile, then vfrdepart weaving through the tall stalks. Every so often, wary, I take a turn around just to make sure that he isn't hot on my trail.

I hope it isn't so obvious. Or that he doesn't realize that there was someone, and said someone chose to backtrack all the way back towards…. Towards the Cornucopia and a reliable source of water. The latter more than the former – there will be people near any pool, and they will probably be less bloodthirsty than the Careers. But they also will lack the expertise one from Eleven has with supplies – I cannot easily provide for myself without knowing much about the wilderness.

I wend my way through the quasi-sea of stalks, until I find that the tall grasses and shrubbery have given way to thin woods and thick copses. I must have deviated from the initial path, or was simply too caught up in my thoughts. On the plus side, the way had become a downwards slope, which… also meant I had to go up sometime or wandered_ far_ off…. This promised water nearby though. A small pond would do for me – I just need somewhere to drink from, since I still have my precious supplies.

The leaves rustle nearby – must be a breeze, or an animal who actually can climb the trees and traverse them. As far as I care, I can't nick their food. The day is still clear, and the area looks to be bountiful, if the amount of plant life is any sign. Therefore, I will harvest. I select a couple of the most average berries, the largest strip of bark, and some leaves that I haven't nibbled on or broken. Ambling around, I lift the samples and hold them against whatever surrounds me. A bush holds berries ever-so-similar to the ones in my hand, round and dark and the size of the toy-teacups that decorate children's toys. I break one with my nails, and the inside is a deep dark color, liquid bleeding down my finger. With another nail I open the berry in my hand and sigh when the inside is pale. I hope it isn't because the fruit I hold isn't ripe, but I will have to make do without the ones offered by this area. After all, death by poison is a classical event here – berries, bark, fauna, Gamemaker gimmicks, once there was poisoned water although that stunt wasn't repeated after the Games lasted little over three days. Too short a show, and mostly bloodless.

They still drop the water purification tablets and other paraphernalia – it can scare, it can prove life saving and it's something else to squabble over. But there is no still water source, and I'd just about kill barehanded for a stream or something, even when it might bring me down with something. Still, so far as water-borne diseases go, they take time. I'd give a week or two on a Tribute who got one... well, that's roundabout one Game, on average. Which means that say, diarrhoea won't kill me any faster than a fellow Tribute or a blood infection will. Just... ickier, and it won't be televised all the way - final minutes or so.

I desist with the replenishing of my goods. This time, so _theoretically_ close to a more dangerous tribute than ponderous Eleven, I am forced to risk the climb. Mercifully, the trees are sturdy and reach even higher, but the last isn't such a boon. They are grouped closer, the foliage is thicker, the ground is smoother and the soft down of dead leaves and soil is thicker.

I grasp at the closest branches, kicking at the trunk and repeating the ordeal from last night. I seize at one on my right, feel it bend under my weight-

_Snap._

I most certainly _do not_ shriek like a little girl, but I do wave my limbs around in a frantic manner. Before – oh so luckily before – I can fall, I have seized another less traitorous branch. However, this tree is marked, so to say. Any other visitor will be able to tell that here, someone is or has spent the time. I don't fancy climbing down, escaping and getting lost again. Few hunters expect the prey to remain where it was hit, or I guess that's how the people on the gang that actually hunt think. I gamble that the tree to my right should be close enough to simply move over. The next bit is tortuous – I move cat-like to the branches. All slow stretches and repeated taps to see if yes, they will hold my weight. Back arched, coiled and ready to leap at a moment's notice into the air and be winded by the fall. Clawing and then gripping like a dead girl the branch, chanting prayers and pleas under my breath in a constant stream. I focus solely on the thick, inviting trunk with a couple branches sticking out in just the right angle to be comfortable. Leaves become dislodged and flutter down, same as hair-slender branches. After what seems – and probably was – hours, I reach the other trunk, collapsing into embracing it.

By now twilight is beginning to settle, and I am in what could be safe shelter. The broken branch is on the ground, suspended debris has already fallen back on it and aside from being quite obviously unnatural, looking up reveals no Tribute. As for me, thick leaves offer screening from at least other living eyes – the cameras are probably hooked to my eyes or some other extravagant thing.

There have been no cannons and the sky just sings the anthem. No deaths for today. The thought should relax me, but I've watched the Games before and know that such a day just brings with the night time a threat. Gamemakers unleashing hell on us, whichever way they see fit.

Oh well, I'll figure it out when the next waking moment comes.


	10. Sniper's Duel

I am not properly sleeping (or even dozing off) when I fall. The light of predawn winks at me from behind laughing leaves, my suit is stained with crushed berries and grass stains. For a moment, the wild, daily-life thought rushes through – they'll be hell to wash, to disguise and the Peacekeepers are always on the lookout for green blots in such a closed-off District. Then I proverbially land back in reality, along with a couple dislodged branches that somehow clunk on the ground.

Hey, Gamemaker trees. Hope you enjoyed my little plight back there, Capitolians. And now, time to return to my scheduled napping, as we all know that I haven't-

_Whoosh. Crackle. Skadoosh_ – man, can branches really make that sound when they fall? _Tap tap tap. Whoosh, cracki-crackily-crackle._

Even I know that those aren't forest noises. The spongy air is growing stagnant, blushing a phosphorescent rust-orange. I feel my bouncy hair being to plaster itself down my neck, the loose strands flying in worry before retreating to my oddly sweaty face. It's still too far behind me, whatever the weapon is. The sounds are muted, the atmosphere barely beginning to saturate and the scent of charred food is only starting to creep up on me, tantalizing and deadly should I go off to follow it.

"No lagging behind! I swear to not waste a knife on you if you get caught behind the line of fire; you… come on, sweet long and agonizing oblivion behind us, fairy Glimmer! Oh, I know I'd like to watch, but not from here."

"_Co-coming Clove! You do know, not all of us were raised in, well-"_

"_Fiery bowels of the most retarded-!"_

"_My most dear District Two, I take it? Well, I'll just make-"_

"_Clove, those two have the range we need to take, say, Fire Girl down. The others I don't know or care about."_

"_Ah, because Lover Boy won't just lure her in, won't he? Aw, and I so wanted to make her face so deeply beautiful…"_

"_You'll have the time."_

Oh, please please please let the smoke be good enough at concealing a rust-haired girl, let the flames stay the (District Two) away behind me, let me hit somewhere safe-

_Crackle. Skadoosh. Roar, crackle, tap tap. _

Gamemaker trees! They slump over, faint from their scintillating costume, the pernicious sparks that surge at me. Fireballs have begun appearing – far away, not here, not with the main tool of death within hearing range. So-

_roar roaR ROAR ROAR ROAR ROar roar roar- whoosh._

Crossfire cross-_damn_-fire and I- stone, duck weave, crash down on nonotdeadleaves please, scrape my shoulder and rushrushRUSH-

_Roar roAR ROAR ROAR Roar roar roar- cr- whoosh. Screech, shh-_ing_, howl. _

A silken shimmer down on the ground and even the stone and oddly tranquil willows seem to crane down to their hallowed oasis. They shield something-one, a cooling thing and even I-

_Roar roaR ROAr roar roar roar-_

I just plunge down, tripping and stumbling and cursing my way under the tangled tresses and small crevices of stone. I gulp at the water, rinsing down the bile and panic. My hair is soaked, not to mention my clothes. From behind the veil of green-yellow-gray, I can see a uniform curtain, rusty and humming life. A massive fire, coiffed and just glimpsing the Careers loping forwards, slapping the water with steel and almost-

No, I'm fairly sure that the girl from Two is laughing an incongruously pretty, chiming laugh. Her boy looks triumphant, as if this was just a walk in a particularly breathtaking park. Tall mighty, solid at stone and just regarding panting One and quasi-panicked Four with…

Something. They might just be prey. But they have range, as who they called Lover Boy says. The lassos, the silvery bow. One has throwing knives, but they only go so far. A sword, and all stories sing of mighty warriors felled by a sniper's bolt. Traitor-Twelve has the charming smiles, the weight-throwing – honeyed bait. His hair may look like it, all melting-warm in the faraway firelight.

So close, calling-distance close and I can just see them finding me, a stray fire-spark stealthy-hidden off between a willow's mask. I sink to my knees; watch the water make my hair swirl around like a flower and my nose is just above it if I tilt my head just right. There are more noises, of pebbles being disturbed from their places and frenzied action.

Let it not be me. Let it be anyone, anything, and everything but me. A gasp, a race, a voice tauntingly up and all-heavens, I'm so vulnerable and so close and-

"Why don't you shoot the sword?"

I can't see it, but I imagine her quite clearly. Waving a captured arrow in her masterful hands. From high up, ensconced in a branch – a chandelier, the Girl on Fire, alive and well and oh-so close.

I hope the slightly-less-proficient girl from One still holds the archer's weapon. The leaves ruffle up, proud of her, caught in a breeze. Daringly, so very daringly-

I try to glimpse her. A hint of a bag here, a long strip of what seems to be silver-pale metal, a short blade. High up, so far even the trees are craned to see her and hang papery baubles around.

Wait. Papery and the balloon-like dangling objects don't sway slightly in the breeze. I can't hear a thing from them though – the murmur of plotting, the sound of ropes being secured and the soft death-hum of weapons unsheathed. I'm from District Five – energy. Laboratories. And muttations – we're one of the few places with enough constant energy to keep them coming. In school, we've all heard about them in biology. Jabberjays, attack mutts…

Tracker Jackers. From here, I can't catch a tell-tale gold. Or a full-black body, which is how I've always seen them as – we've gone ahead and done dissection on many a dead mutt. But they're close, another weapon at everyone's disposal.

I resolve to wait it out – come nightfall, I may depart. With the Careers this close, a daytime run for it would end with an arrow to my back, a knife in my neck and both my legs strung up. I hear the thumping of animals gathering near the still water – the thunks of knives drinking their blood and a fire being set up.

Great. I might get a feast of scraps if I'm lucky when I escape. Ashes to coat my hair. A faint warm mist to tide the coolness of the dark over. And smoke to sedate the killer wasps.

The Careers settle down, producing nuts and juicy fruit from smaller packs hauled with them. Ointments and a couple of pills. A warm, pungent-smelling drink that somehow reminds me of coffee. Laughter, taunts, jibes, showing of weapons. I stifle a sigh at the showcased knives.

I do catch something – a slight groaning of wood. Slowly, so slowly, I back even further into the stones between the willow's base, keeping always the Careers in my sight. The anthem's first chords play, boisterous, concealing and for a moment I keep my eyes open by force of will.

I've always been good for all-nighters, I tell myself. But I had been pushing my limit, and the deathly wake-up calls haven't helped me any.

It's funny, but the anthem and the saw-sawing sound are soothing, a bloody lullaby.

I can't remember falling asleep very well, all wet and so close to my doom. But I do so anyways, the last thing of that day being my sunset-rust hair dimming off in the deep nightfall.


	11. Eleventh Hour Choice

I open my eyes.

_The Careers, a murder or crows, all clustered around a hazy campfire and the tangy smell of meat and dried food. Laughter, weapons glazed across the flames in lazy motions, jabs at the air above._

Close them.

_Long lessons about mutts, the venomous Tracker Jackers and the small ready-to-dissect bodies on sterilized silvery plates. The guide detailing every single nightmarish effect with cold efficiency and a diagram._

Open them.

_The Girl on Fire sleeping perched in her mighty tree, a silvery blanket draped across her shoulders and the sponsor gift cradled in her arms. So very high and so very safe, oblivious to the ominous buzzing surrounding her._

_Or maybe she knows already._

Close my eyes.

_Audrey and I shoved beneath an upturned sofa. On the other side of the thing, a mild buzzing sound- just one bee drifts lazily around the living room. I curl further into the mildew-stinking cushions and will myself into vanishing; Audrey peeks out occasionally to say that it's still there._

Open my eyes.

The Careers are discarding packs of food they maybe don't particularly like. An empty bottle of water. Unfurling heat-reflecting sleeping bags, getting comfortable within the silky black cocoons. The boy from One takes first watch, hefts a little lance just longer than his arm and slim as a finger and all slick metal-

A rabbit darts forwards. It halts dead on its small paws, pinned to the tree by the weapon and unmistakably food now. I shy a bit further into my oh-so-vulnerable hollow at the willow's roots, mindful of the cadence and volume of my breaths.

Even the wind blowing the long tresses sounds like it brings my death.

Close my eyes again. It's futile, I know- no sleep for me at all today. Not this close to practiced killers and in numbers. I want, desperately, to rush out and scavenge the rich foods they haven't consumed- despite the small number of supplies I've nicked initially, the leaves and bark don't really sustain me. And anyways, they don't even taste like food. I'm damn human, after all- greenery like that can only be a side dish, at the most.

Open my eyes. I see the moon's face quiet, the boy staring off into empty space and I realize that, for at least two hours, I've been safe and sound. Hunger and insomnia set themselves to work.

A thief, rogue, quiet girl I am. Sneaker queen, the fox, a being of night as Joel would say when he would wax lyrical. So why not be like so now?

They have supplies. Young Peacekeepers with their shiny weapons and too-obvious movements and man, my brain thinks, it would be just like home to slink after them and live off…

Not scraps. I could feast on their supplies with ease, if I knew where they were. I can steal from them- and it's not like anyone else actually does such a thing. They're all here- no guards.

_It's so easy_, memories lure. _A little shop, at the most. You've done so a million times already._

I close my eyes. Open them. Close them. Open them.

The Careers, the girl in the tree. The Careers again, the slumbering girl in the tree, swaddled in a proper bag and tied to a proper safe haven while I have to content myself with a hole in the ground covered by shrubbery and willow leaves.

I want to sigh, to shrug the dull throbbing in my shoulders away, to get a clearer view of the encampment and siege. But I need to sleep-

Everything is getting hazy-

Close my eyes-

Open my eyes. I can die _now_, and anyways-

Close my eyes. If I doze off for too long, I'm dead- _sounds, stepping, rolling_-

Open my eyes- watch has changed, it's the girl from One and she simply shrugs and resumes her nap in a protective position and-

Close my eyes.

Open them. Sawing sounds. A sedate humming. The shutter of leaves falling displaced from their branches. One lands on my nose. _Saw, saw, saw_… a wincing mewl of pain.

More buzzing. Angrier, the snapping sound of-

_Crack._

Breaking and I-

_Snap-_

So very slowly, I edge into the water. Faster- saw, saw, saw, snap, creak. The circular ripples form around my legs and I see the branches tangle thick underneath the water's surface.

A resounding crisp crack. Many more whip up in response, the buzzing grows enraged and swells and I muffle it with water and-

Screams. I close my eyes, open them and I really can't hear the pained shrieks and agonized cries over the ghost of the buzzing in my ears and the booming of my heart and-

Head over water, gasp for breath, swallow water, sink again. Fear, buzz, fear. A cacophony of buzzing, shrieking, stepping assaults my ears. I hear, then see, the boom-boom of feet rushing into the water. Clumsy feet from Lover boy, practiced leaps from the Careers who manage to stumble and stagger with less hitches.

They're still erratical- stung, then. Yet I dare not show myself, for fear the hallucination-inducing neurotoxin hasn't kicked in yet. For fear that just one wasp will see me. A long, ululating scream and I see the arm of the girl from Four sway from between thick shrubs, fingers nearly eradicated by the mass of stings.

I close my eyes. I don't want to see her face. _Boom_- a cannon and I see the disfigured arm drop twitching to the ground, even though she's dead. Hysterical laugh-cries from further away, then a lull- whoever else was stung is now in a deep, painful coma. I count faces-

_Two. Two. One. Twelve._ Three boys and one defiant girl, all bearing inflamed stings. Barbed ends protrude from the centers of the swellings. Grime and disheveled, they look even more dangerous. They're soaking wet, and I know that they have the plan to return to their base, wherever that is.

But first, once the angered buzzing dies out, they return to the camp. Mentally, I swear obscene words and curses and why did it have to be wasps and bees and Careers.

I soundlessly follow, paying obsessive attention to every single footfall, heartbeat, breath, thought, rustle. Lover Boy leads- they want him dead first. To break the challenger, burn Fire Girl out from the inside. Yet he still walks evenly, confident in the subsided buzzing and-

I wait, frozen still. The rest haven't advanced at the same pace and after a few breaths, it's the bull from One the one that follows Twelve into their clearing.

I hear confused steps, a smooth report of _nothing_. A couple words shot through the air.

I really hear "_a rabbit_"; it sounds incongruous, but I see the boy from One sway impossibly. Hear his mouth split open in nonsense calls and the girl from Two has her gaze fixated on her knife-laden hands and is screaming out numbers.

A poison kicking in. I huddle down, pinning myself to the trees surrounding me and pray long and hard and in my mind that they don't decide to fire off at their nightmares-

A searing blade chases past one of my hands, another so very close to my side and two more veer into nothingness. Ruby slashes peek from my skin in thin rivets and I lick at my hands to staunch the flow. It logically does nothing but increase the stinging pain.

_They're shallow_, a logical part of me says, but the rest of my mind is in fluttered panic._ I'm wounded, I'm dead and if this is her muddled, conscious I don't stand a chance-_

They all stagger and fall gracelessly to the ground. Just for my safety, I don't mimic them. But I keep rigorous watch, not ever wanting them to see me here.

And I'll walk their path when they wake, trailing behind them for supplies. I know from worksheets that, if not lethal, the effects might as well persist for days.

It seems like such a solid choice.


	12. Stocking Up

I stand petrified under the crook of a tree, still in vigil. For divine objects, the agonizing Careers seem a poor choice- but they haven't stopped their moans. Cries. Shivers and jolts and scything and kicking. Deep in a chemical nightmare, they still seem dangerous.

I'm not sure if I would've liked them better sedated and dead-looking. But they're at their old site now, calm waters licking at thrashing feet and balmy shadows drooping over them. Supplies scattered on the ground near the egg-burst nest, a few dead wasps.

Huh, fancy that. They must've fallen over the embers, or been right on the underside on the nest and received too large an impact.

_Supplies_. Dirty with dead leaves, ash, some dust, blood- yet supplies all the same. Suspiciously, I don't see the bow and arrows- I assume the hovercraft bore them away on a bloated corpse. But the knives the girl from Two hurled before have landed somewhere near here. A bunch of little packets lie waiting, even a couple of charred scraps of meat. Some half- or so filled water bottles.

A long moan, shrill and unbroken- I don't want to check from who it came from and much less why. Sounded at the very least in excruciating pain.

Hope it isn't only mental- crippled is the only way I'll stand a chance against one of them, let alone three plus the Lover Boy. But hunger has sent the long drawls of information out of my mind and replaced them with the little images of the slightly abused food packages in front of me.

Tentatively, oh so_ slowly_ and with my heart almost physically in my throat. Languidly, focus solely on the silence of the clearing and the soft beat of the water. I advance, painful-slow and sure towards the first package.

I luck out- it's jerky, roughly half of it. Then it's hysteria in my veins and I zip across, checking each of the contents with an appraising and ravenous eye.

Delirious dehydrated berries. Divine fruit, pressed and conserved with sugars. Salted jerky strips roughly the length of my forearm and rough as bark. A couple burnt crusts of bread, with a bit of the white fluffy insides still clinging tenaciously to it and even softly scented of butter. It takes too much effort to tear my head away from the devouring hole in my stomach and slap my hands back.

This is by far my shoddiest job- back in District Five, Wasp would've boxed my ears. Sparks would've just eyed me eerily, as if her foray to the moon had been cut short by my behavior and was expecting me to hand her the ticket back. There would've been Peacekeeper noises from behind- grunts and groans and curses at losing a scrawny fox of a girl in the warren of alleys and backstreets only to have her loop back. But here, in the Arena, I just hear tranquil crickets and agitated breaths of my foes. My fingers curl around the grips of some throwing knives- it'd be easy, _so easy_, to slit their throats.

But without their supplies, or a way to get at them, my death is guaranteed. With them, it's a large chance of it, but not a sure thing. Maybe, just maybe.

I don't want the poison to fade off before I've melted back into the underbrush or something. I grasp and tear at the supplies, taking too much of the jerky and ripping one of the bags with nuts apart. I bite my tongue while stifling a curse, and I'm not sure if that hurt more than the knife cuts on my hand. One of the water bottles spills a bit- I hurriedly select another one, spraying liquid in a wide irregular arc and oh no I'm going to get caught. Somehow, I've crammed the items into pockets, the hood, inside my shirt.

Man, I'd wash better than just a frenzied dip in the pool if I could- but with these companions, I wouldn't risk it until my ripe smell was too strong to conceal. Not that I'm too far away from that point, but it can still wait. I've only a limited time to acquire goods before the shock of the toxin leaves their system.

Then I stagger back into my secluded corner of shrubbery. A reek of mint assaults me and I rub annoyed against it, seeking to mute it a bit or to get by osmosis some of the passable fragrance. It most probably doesn't work, but I'm not going to care for that at the moment.

Fidgeting a bit, I retrieve some of the strips of bark soaked in crushed berry juice and sweat. They've survived this hell and I'm hungry, but…

No, I will not gobble up the nicer stuff right now. Something about rationing or keeping my strength up and most importantly, I'm not sure how much I'll be able to trickle from them.

I nip and suck at the bit of deprecated tree matter. It tastes as bad as it did before- of mostly nothing and cellulose-texture, choking like paper and molasses. I slip a finger into another pocket, retrieving a single raisin.

A bit of the nice stuff. It's all golden-amber, curled up like a fat leaf. One of Audrey's candies, all warped and wrinkled from too long in the sun and pressure.

I pretend I'm not pressing it against the nearly-tasteless bark. I am not biting into it and relishing the sweetness and gummy texture. I don't close my eyes in near bliss, most certainly I don't. And I don't take seconds, this time with a little round blue-brown berry.

Eating the strip of bark consumes most of the afternoon. And the Careers are still in the hallucinogen induced daze, the world a rainbow burst of pain. Maybe I've lucked out here and-

I hear retching and colorful curses tearing shrapnel-loud through the greenery. Whatever hopes I had of at least one Career perishing have vanished… but I still have a warm trail to the supply treasure trove.

The girl- the only one I know still lives apart from Girl on Fire- stretches long and lean. Even with the front of her clothes drenched in sweat and vomit, she'd be among the last people I'd poke fun at. And she surveys the field-

I pray, I really do, that she doesn't find footprints. That the ripped things are from fortunate wildlife and their own rush, instead of from a scrawny fox of a girl. That she thinks the knives zoomed off into the distance. But she holds the campsite in her gaze for infinity, surveying the place like she knows something is-

"We should be getting back- no use hunting in this state."

"Lover Boy, as if we'd be brought down by that. Although, I can accommodate if you think-"

"Made it as well, didn't I?"

"Hmph, guess you did."

I hear more than see her dance tight circles around the bulkier boy, all eyes on her and only her. The nearly-sensuous dance, the predatory gaze and-

_Flick-_

"Ow."

"But just by a little. Now be a good ally and lead the way back, since we're so…"

"Okay."

I make sure to stay a good ways behind the boy from One, last in line. And always, obsessively right at his back and with a knife aimed poorly between his shoulder blades.

I amble-sneak forwards, too mindful of not tripping to really focus on the route.

And it isn't that important for me at this point anyways.

* * *

><p><em>A.N.<em> – Sorry for the update slippage! I really am sorry, but suddenly exams and hospital and having to lend out the books. So… mind if I ask for forgiveness?

That said, thanks for reading and enjoying this fic, and I hope to see you soon!


	13. Practice Makes

I'm in a teensy copse of trees now. Homely, with a ragged diameter of my arms spread wide twice. If I close my eyes and squint hard enough; if I add in my mind some gashed cushions and more teenagers gamboling and ribald in the droopy branches; if I do that, I might just pretend I'm back at my guild's corner in Five.

Then I catch sight of the imposing Cornucopia with its not-so-neatly piled up supplies and I barely swallow down panic by curling in and down inside one of the bushes. The Careers are there, pantomiming restocking and patrolling the wide perimeter of the clearing. I don't suspect much of them, but maybe-

The blade I picked up is still by my side. Maybe the girl from Two is so attuned to knifes she can sense them, or else they just suppose that, with all that food, there must be a foolhardy and desperate Tribute willing to risk it all for ratings and some grub. I just think that it's me- the rest are dead. Or dying gorgeously slowly.

I imagine the boy from Eleven, tall and imposing, perishing slow like the rocks. If the Careers intend to starve him out, that'll take ages. But that isn't a likely strategy, not for them. Then again, licking their wounds is unusual.

One, Two, Two, straggling Three with one boy tethered to the inside of the horn and clutching a… lance, it looks like, like it's a lifeline. Against three people, it is useless and even more so with your back to the wall. Yet he's in a prime position, with the bounty within hand's reach and the Career's temporal guard.

Once I figure out his trick, I kill him. Not personally- not with 'my' knife against his lance, not even throwing it. But indirectly?

The row between the Careers seems to spark up along with their silhouettes on the far side of the clearing. Screaming and gesturing and a sword drawn and the obvious betrayal all the way on a river's bank.

I wonder if there is blood on the water, or if the fish that may live there have drunk it up. And why hasn't Lover Boy, as I've heard him named, hasn't lit up the night sky yet.

One more foe, one more empty stomach.

The girl from Two- it's always, always her first reaching the Cornucopia- stalks forward. Tests the ground warily. Eyes it with a look that is still predatory, yet…

The movements are a languid dance. Feet slip airy between patches of dirt, arms stretched out to full reach. At times, a leap. The only solace I get is that, in that position, any target gets a second's warning before the knives get you.

I force myself to blearily focus on her feet between obfuscating foliage and distance-lost ground. Hop, twirl, leap, step, step, bound, twirl lather rinse repeat. Hop to twirl to leap to step to keep your eyes peeled and on the girl to old routines back at Five with boys ogling crowds searching for the thieving girl to step to bound to twirl. Then she takes a mocking bow leaning against the large metal surface and checks the supplies for something she deems appropriate.

_Hop, twirl, leap, step._

Why would she dance as in a spider's web?

_Step, bound, twirl, hop._

One, Two, Two, Three.

Three's a crowd. One too many…

_Hop. Twirl. Leap._

It looks less graceful on the bulkier boys, who have made the motions explosive and have the wiry boy from Three in near hysterics.

_Step. Step._

_You're dead, little boy Three_, I think quietly enough through my stomach rumbling and yawning through the last ounces of performance. A little minefield- how? Not why- that is obvious, from here to the Capitol. Held at weapon-point, if you said you could keep those safe, you'd be safe as well.

But this is certainly hell.

_Hop- twirl- leap- step-_

A past show and a Tribute blown sky-high because he blinked too early.

_Hop- twirl- leap- step-_

This boy from Three, tethered both by the people with the weapons and the ring of fire he set up himself- easy for him to evade, but his recapture will be a cinch.

_Step- leap- twirl- hop._

And mine as well, Three so far as well. We both hang on this.

This night then. If they foray out as well- far as I've seen, Career tactics never include sitting still. And they probably won't do so anyways, if the Girl on Fire is still out at league with her survival skills. So, if moonlight reveals a mostly-empty Cornucopia, I'll run and weave my way to it.

_This night._

Hop-twirl-leap-step-step-bound-twirl-twirl…

I hope that the sponsors are as nocturnal as we are forced to be. Pulling this off might serve me well.

Might, if I make it through the night.

One, Two, Two Three-Five Eleven…

* * *

><p>A.N. – minor detail- Foxface did cross a minefield almost flawlessly (she fell in a safe spot)… which probably means that she had more than the one try.<p>

You can guess what happens next time around. And sorry if I'm beginning to fudge around with the storyline… between finals and being locked out of my books for a bit, it might happen. Think this still fits, as Katniss took two days on Tracker Jacker leave and two days for her plan too, if I remember well.

So that's all, and see you next time!


	14. Minesweeper

Night takes ages to fall. I shouldn't have committed to my plan at roughly midday, much less with no real supplies to speak of. And waiting for the cover of darkness didn't seem to be worth it. The Careers had some healing salves somewhere that dealt with the stings fast and well, although some cuts and bruises are still there. And they prowl for most of the day, sometimes returning with fresh kills, sometimes sending long gashes of smoke up in the cloudless sky.

Only they could do such a foolish act and go unpunished. No one would dare attack a Career pack- not the Girl on Fire, not the bull-boy from Eleven and Lover Boy lays dying on a riverbank I passed on the way here.

I can't even remember what it was about. Just the loud screaming and the sword slashing through meat and sinew, the click of mud-caked boots on stone.

But for now, I'm watching the boy from Three. Tracing my steps on the cobwebbed minefield. If I do it from an extreme enough angle, he won't see me- and I have the thief's silent tread to protect me if he tries to rely on sound. I'm too grateful for the theatrics of an open, neatly trimmed field that doesn't allow tracks to be made. The exaggerated size of the Cornucopia, some sloppiness in order. And I miss having a bag, even when it would snag on every bramble and be obnoxiously colorful. But I could carry more things around on a bag- more than my couple water bottles still half-filled and some assortment of stolen scraps. I have run out of the more organic fare I stole on the first night- good riddance, as I really wouldn't have eaten it. Not even starving as I am now- I am no wild beast, no lowly huntress who relies on fickle Nature for her sustenance. People can provide better things after all. Safer, tastier, with no overbearing needs to double and triple check every leaf to the sunlight to check if it's really that shade of green-yellow-brown deeming it edible. Softer too- everything I eat has the texture of bark; the water is slightly stiff with a couple of minerals added and my own personal addition of a couple iodine crystals nicked on the road.

I bite back cheers as sunset falls. But I allow myself a smile- too wide, to the point of stinging my lips and being an only-very-slightly less conspicuous way of congratulating the sun on making a descent.

A last look at the spindly sentry. He's gone over to the other side of the Cornucopia just now, but it's no great hindrance for him. He'll have a clear sight of me anyways, when I'm on the run. My true threat is the floor and the possibility of Careers returning.

The latter scares me more than the former. At least, an explosion has no interest in making your demise particularly interesting to the viewers- only a sharp burst of pain and white.

With that in mind, I slowly drift out of my copse. I am a mess- bedraggled hair, clothing barely keeping itself from rags. Jog forwards, keeping too much interest on my pulse, my footfalls, a breathing that alternates between dangerously fast and ponderous. Then the soft mounds of turned earth greet me.

They look slightly like pillows and the unmarked graves at the edge of my District town. Death is soft, I suppose, before the grand bang. And I move my lips in quiet recital of every step, every spin, every bounce I do.

It's a mimicry of the dance done by the girl of Two, down to the mocking bow. I learnt it by chanting like a rosary her motions in whispers and my mind's eye. Now, the mantra I act- a sickly slender double with horrendously visible sunset-colored hair in a frizzy haze around her and-

A boy from Three, damningly armed, rounding the Cornucopia's back end just as I-

Duck under the large golden overhang arching above me, behind some crates stacked with goods. I smell citrus, the scent intoxicating and making me drool in my makeshift hideout as I try to stall my breathing. He casts no shadow, makes very little noise- no rattling breath, just a slight hint of a ripe smell. I spy a bit of him through a small gap between the objects concealing me and sputter out a breath as he turns and leaves.

Then I ransack the containers nearest to me. I stuff some of the heavenly oranges down my shirt, some purification tablets lodged between. Some strips of dried meat and fruit. One- just one, because the bottles are kept in a more rigorous order than most of the other things- water bottle, and one of what seems to be juice just because it's there. And I never really liked juice or at least not the mediocre brews in Five or the outrageously sweet liquid we got served in the Capitol. But it's there, and I'm desperate, so I'll take what is at hand.

I want to leave stuffed with food until my ribs hurt because of the things I've pressed under my clothes and am too full to dance the safety route back properly. But that means I'll get caught, or worse, something will fall. And when people say gravity is a harsh mistress, I don't think they mean gravity as in a mere fall from less than waist-high to the ground. But it's as harsh as I'll probably see if something slips from my grip. So I leave dissatisfied from the cave of wonders.

My return trip isn't as smooth.

I have to juggle my movements a lot more, and suddenly every inch of my arms is alien. The supplies crammed into the sleeves are restricting; my weak legs struggle more at keeping balance when carrying the weight spread out over too many areas and not really held too well. I scoop and stop falling objects with my hands and feet, too mindful of every beat of blood moving to my fingertips and-

The sentry. Not only have I been careless, I have been slow. Painfully so- I'm somewhere in the middle of the ring of fire, with a crawling pace I don't dare accelerate.

If something falls, I'm dead- if I, if I.

Haltingly, I pick up my pace. All focus slips away to the ground and my bounty- my movements, my sound, the pillow mounds of darker earth flecked with moonlight and the receding-curling steps of the guard. The growing spaces between each mine-spot, the dull ache in my arms, the crawling edges of my- or it may be some other- ratty copse, my half-crash into the underbrush I don't conceal perfectly, but it went undetected anyways. Or so I hope, as I duck deeper into the shrubs and lower into the muck and leaves, eyes trained maniac-acute on the figure of the boy from Three reaching the spot I occupied not so long ago.

I wait, almost until dawn breaks, to eat something. It may have been a crushed orange, or opening a pack of blond raisins and picking the larger ones out with care. The ones that seem sweeter, or are plump and gummy with congealed pulp. It may have been syrupy berries, or even a washed-down juice that-

Well, it might not taste that bad.

And even as I sup on victory and pray to the streaked skies for no ill-timed parachutes that would reveal my location, I keep a paranoid watch on the boy and his lance.

He didn't see me once. Maybe I can steal my way through this one.


	15. Luck and Error

I nibble at a slice of apple, warily staring out towards the sun touched Cornucopia. It's the same as always, I suppose, fat and gleaming with spilled supplies spiraling outwards in a safety net. A bit emptier each day-

I finish my slice. My hands itch for another one, but I fumble until I am sucking on the dirtied edge of a sleeve. It tastes awful and I really want to get my fix of food, but I better ration out the spoils. At least over the course of the day…

The fabric tastes tangy-sweet and crisp and I'm eating another slice. As it is, it'll spoil anyways if I leave it out for too long, in any case. And I have more. Pockets crammed, every single space between me and my clothes packed to bursting with nourishment. The Cornucopia. With the golden horn of plenty so near, I almost don't need to space out my feeding. But I should, I really should, in case I have to run. The Careers can get bored of just stalling and stalking for too-elusive prey.

I resume my vigil of the meadow. The Careers are still there, along with the boy from Three, supping on something. Laughing long and loud. They look like students on an outing, or my gang back home when we'd share our bounties. They turn languorously towards a nondescript edge of the clearing.

All I think of is not me. Not my little copse with the long deep hollow between roots where I sleep and stash away some wrappers and unopened food. Not the clump of bushes where I started out, curled up beneath fresh leaves and rubbing mint on my shoulders. All I think of is not me, not now, not ever me and please, if you set off-

The smoke curlicues up and up. Clear as day, someone's signed their death. The Careers howl and race off like a pack of dogs, the glint of weapons waving them off. Three follows them, backed by an argument and the echo of the cannon shot from so short a time ago. I know he can't see me- the distance is too great, my hood is covering my unfortunately bright and frizzy hair, the shrubbery conceals all else. Nevertheless, I tense until his eyes sweep over my small camp once, twice, thrice and he's not even thinking of intruders anymore as he leaves behind the group. I am. I plan on nicking more supplies, maybe another blade if the girl from Two is still overwhelmingly stocked.

Fast, I sweep away most of my goods. Bury them in the loamy ground and the debris from the trees. I know how to make my way back if I need it, and anyways I have enough to sustain me for a day or two if I manage to stagger my consumption. I need agility and space now, after all.

My first spot seems clear enough, well away from where the smoke is now pooling in the clear sky. A bit smaller than here, but it'll serve well for a day, or until nightfall. My hands brush over my clothes, dirt falling in clumps from the pant legs. The green stains from the grass won't come off as easily, and I don't know why I bother. It's not like the people from the Capitol are watching us because we're dashing, or exceedingly beautiful, or anything. They may even want me dead, if the betting tide sways that way. Mostly, I think they haven't seen me either. Same as the other Tributes, barely noting the fact that I haven't lit the sky up yet and only planning for tomorrow and today.

I stalk out, falling unconsciously into a crouch. For now, the motions are as fast as I dare- I can't fall, but I can't stall either. I'm against someone with range. The edge of the mined cobweb reaches out under my feet, I halt. Three isn't near or he would've noticed. I feel watched, so watched, and it's not only running out in full daylight. For being my third sortie, it's the first one in no twilight or shrouded by hazy dark. Maybe the Capitol people are really awake enough to behold my dance.

I begin to weave my way across, darting between the steps. Hop, leap, step, twirl, hop-

No. Oh no, oh no, don't let it end please no I'm falling and please please not now, later on, please-

Gravity is a harsh mistress. And I can't do anything spectacularly, so my stumble is graceless, anticlimactic. Dumb even, just my landing being skewed. My arms rotating like the windmills in the pretty old pictures from encyclopedias, falling to cross themselves in front of my chest. As if that could protect me in any way. I think I'm silent, but my throat feels hoarse or squeaky, and there is no way the thump of my body hitting the ground was muffled.

Silence. A beat of it, just like a heart, and I think that maybe the death was swift.

But the explosions are instantaneous. A girl once dropped a wooden ball (the most pointless token I've seen) and she was blown as sky-high as ashes. The weight of the thing must've been almost negligible when compared to a full body, even a bony one. So I'm not dead. Not now, not yet and I feel like smiling and cheering, only that doing so would end in a spear through my chest. As it is, I blink, feel my face stretch and itch in joy. Dash the last few dance-steps across, cram my everything with food and, just to be sure and celebrate, two knives.

My dance back out is slower, daintier. I don't want another near brush with death, and as it is, no-one saw me. I'm out free, I'm running clear out and over and the ground in my first copse of bushy trees is so soft and welcoming and hiding no deadly elements.

I am barely shuffling myself around into comfort when I hear a hissing sound. Something flying all the way over to my glorified pantry and- well, I really can't see much more. But I shy further in, curling into a protective stance. My arms shield my face, my ears, and a slice of my chest that my legs don't quite cover.

Then all sound breaks loose. Sound and pressure and I think I feel heat, surreal as it is. Then the haze of bursting energy fades. I inch forwards, until my torso is nearly poking out from between the camouflage.

The sight of the bare Cornucopia is bizarre. Beautiful even, with every single ray of light and acrid smoke playing over smoothened terrain and artistic curves. Far off on one side, there is another girl, her hair in a tight intricate braid (as far as I can guess) panting and rolled on the ground. In pain, so far as I can think, and scared. I see remnants of bounty, and I turn my attention to them instead of the corpse-to-be.

I poise myself to step out, stretching into position just as the girl from Twelve (I'm sure of it) edges underneath her own quiet copse.

Then the Careers burst from the other side, screaming and almost comically angry. If nothing else, the mines blew any and all of my traces away along with the sustenance- I'm as good as invisible to them.

But not the boy from Three, who's thrown in some stones. Declared everything gone, even if I can still detect some useful things in the rubble- the glint of metal, or something that refused to burn completely. The boy who ran, got caught in a headlock. Went limp with a snap. Fell horridly twisted and with a last pang of cannon fire.

The Careers gesture wildly, and they seem to say that the bomber died with the stash. I wait; watch them retreat in the general direction of the lake nearby. Night creeps up slowly on me as I edge towards where the girl from Twelve was.

Her, I pick for her brains. I'm still far away from her, but close enough to know if she flees. I curl up underneath some bushes, shiver a little. I bizarrely miss the hollows on the ground, lined with my hair and leaves, but I can't afford to return. And I'm nearly at my second place- tomorrow I'll pick up my last supplies before stalking my new provider.

I hear the anthem and go to sleep with the faces of Three and Ten beaming down from their graves.

* * *

><p>I wake up mercifully early to an empty Cornucopia. And laughter I had repressed bubbles up, because I'm free, I have a flying chance, I am alive. Hurriedly, I fill up every nook and cranny on my person with the last spoils from my camps. Run out to the clearing, spreading my arms and salvaging what I can.<p>

Knives, pots, pans. A couple scraps of fabric long enough to wrap around an arm or a leg. I feel watched again-

Steps. Loud, of people not really accustomed to stealth, and they have to be the Careers. From behind me, so I tear across with no care for my steps and sink into more shrubs.

I close my eyes for a moment, and follow the route that leads vaguely downhill. It seems likely for a wounded girl, and I don't fancy anything too harsh in any case- I can't risk overexerting myself.

The stream laps at my heels when I find it, licking away cold through my shoes, and I hide away in some other bushes to wait anyone out.

* * *

><p>A.N. – update~ Haha. Okay, so there was a teensy time-skip-y thing here, so I hope I didn't overly confuse you. Again, I hope as always you enjoyed this and reviews are appreciated but by no means required.<p>

Hope to see you soon!


	16. Rising Times

A.N. – more in- and out-of universe time-skipping, but let's finish this soon and that way we're all happy, okay?

* * *

><p>Following the wounded girl- now the Girl on Fire- proves to be a harder deal than I thought, even when she's wounded and I'm alert and well-fed. But she didn't seem too bony either, so maybe I've misjudged. I don't think that too probable, though.<p>

Point is, the Girl on Fire got away- I suppose she also was a thief, all the way back in her home. And I've retraced my steps, done in a hurry and with a loss of stealth, back to one of my hidey-holes near the Cornucopia.

I'm nearer to the lake right now. Nearer, since being right at the shore is a dead giveaway for thirsty Careers and my caches are scattered far away from water in any case. I don't want them to spoil, if they manage to last long enough. The Games move much quicker with no Cornucopia to replenish weapons or energy- and my supplies might as well last me through this.

It's quite comfortable, even if I have had to forsake some of my stashes. The Careers are ranging now, more focused with taking down the last stubborn survivors, and the alliances have broken down to nothing. It's the pair from Two- and them together only because the second they look away from each other they're dead- the boy from One-

Oh, not him. He's dead by now- a couple of days ago even. His face lit up the sky, all pretty and clean, while I was walking back to this place. I don't think it looked like that in the end- but then again, after seeing what the girl from One became in death (albeit very briefly), I'm not a good judge.

The system reminds me of the rare executions back home, when they catch a hapless kid in the act and we all are summoned to the square in the town to watch a pretty little headshot live and close-up. We all get some crumpled pictures of the victim, some charges and the same emblem of the Capitol printed neater than anything else underneath. I didn't think they'd do that to a boy from a Career district- but there he was, all vapid last-smiles in a pamphlet in the skies.

He's dead, which leaves me. The boy from Eleven- the small fairy of a girl died the same day as the boy from One, and that must have been an image to remember. The couple from Two, the couple from Twelve. For once, it's a mixed bag, like in the catastrophe scenarios where everyone was indiscriminately wiped off. And counting off, I see that everything is eerily perfect in the split- three girls, three boys. All girls ranged, and all boys melee powerhouses. It would look beautiful, were we to be forced into a grand brawl, and I'm sure that they'll force such a thing soon on us.

I bathe that night, combing my hands through a hassle of knotted hair and keeping all of my gear on. I dare not remove it, even when chastity is not an issue- I'm afraid something will be ironically stolen, or that I'll misplace and lose anything. The darkness is oppressive, but it suits me like a glove- there are no rippling shimmers in the water, and I can't be seen. It's weird to do such a thing as bathing, but I do it anyways, before I move again. I'm not rank-smelling, not yet at any rate, but shoved into close quarters the smell of outdoors living might become noticeable.

When I'm done, I settle into a doze, counting nuts inside plastic packages and mouthing nonsense rhymes to keep myself awake. I'm used to cold, sleepless nights, but I want to have a couple hours of slumber.

I come to when it's blazing day, with my hair dry and matted into fallen leaves and drool on my face. It's highly unremarkable, as far as waking up goes, save for the late hour. And the static thrumming in the air, of something getting ready-

The voice that booms is from kingdom come, offering a way to the next life. A binding contract for the two remaining District couples- and oh, how I envy them for having an ally to filch food from. I wonder, fleetingly, if the hulking boy from Eleven looks enough like me to pass off as long-separated relations. But he's colored deeper than I am, even with the Games' sun heavy on my skin; my eyes are a paler color, amber they called it back home, while I imagine his are dark. I wouldn't know, but it is an interesting possibility.

And it isn't mine, at any rate. But I've been offered a Feast. For crows, most probably, but I've seen on ancient replays how the Capitol can throw a lavish banquet in the middle of the place. And for me, what I need-desire the most is food. Or a decent sleeping bag- I'll even take a pillow, anything, to not sleep on a tree's root system again, with thick limbs poking into my back and too many knots to settle my head comfortably.

The tactic is simple. It's arriving, early and unaccompanied. Swift as the wind or a hover-craft, swiping your goods- they're always marked, for ease and for show- and leaving so fast the cameras swerve to catch you and you alone. And I don't have to run too long a distance- I'm a couple knife-throws away at the most.

I'd like to test my speed, but I'm afraid of the possibility of Careers nearby. Or the animals that are sure to lurk around here- that I haven't encountered them doesn't mean that they aren't there. And the girl that left Five got winded from a sufficiently long sprint, let alone while burdened.

There was a reason why I specialized in sneaking and almost-disguises instead of the hit-and-run favored by the lesser thieves. And why I managed to get a lion's share always- but that's not for now.

I amble anyways all the way to the clearing border. I'd call it stalking, but I hold on to the trees too much, like a scared little girl with her hand in her mother's. It's an odd image, for any Fiver, to be linked with nature in any way. But this thing is built, so I don't think it counts. I poke my nose out, one-two, three-four, counting out and sniping for the remaining Tributes. I can't really say Careers anymore, and it's confusing.

I don't see them either. And I begin dancing out, of all things, with the same choreography I used for the minefield-

Hop. Twirl. Step.

I don't stop. It's safe, sound and fast. The steps are muted against the ravaged ground, and the spins every now and again ensure I see from many angles. Then the metal curves of the Cornucopia cast their shadows over me, and I sling myself in.

Deep inside the metallic structure, it's pleasant. Not warm, but not cold either, and I'm swaddled in shadows. I'm a bit cramped, but I don't mind it much- I remember being worse, a couple of times, when a heist went on for long or we got snared into hiding by Peacekeepers. My gang used to be able to wait them out by curling up cardboard boxes, underneath every overhang, behind storage crates and inside every obscured nook. I'm in the technical lap of luxury for those situations, in a small compartment between the ceiling of the Cornucopia, a couple artistic extra curves, and a couple of charred crates that survived the explosion. I still have some of my supplies- I didn't get to pick up more, and I imagine that whatever I get will give me sustenance.

I make attempts at dozing off, at eating something. I succeed quite easily in the latter- I'm famished, as nearly always, and I'd like some extra space. But I don't get the hang of falling asleep until later, and even then it's mostly many cat-naps chained together into an afternoon and an evening.

From beneath, I can feel some whirring of machinery, of assembly, deep down in some subterranean room. It's definitely not ready, since it's far from the stipulated time. But I amuse myself with daydreams until stars begin to break out into a bloody line in the horizon, imagining pastries and sodas in a neat table when morning shuffles in.

It's a pleasant last image for the day, I suppose. And as far as last thoughts go, I'd keep these- of me relishing the idea of candies in the middle of a combat arena.

So I blank my mind when that happens- noxiously far from the time my reveries led me to believe it was- and snooze off.


	17. A Feast

I wake up before dawn. Of course, I don't see it- I'm huddled inside a metal structure, and anyways sunrise can't be that magnificent. Besides, who knows what's waiting there. Something certainly is, after all the whirring. It rose in crescendo, rumbling through my frame and shaking me awake before the noise caught up to my ears.

Taking care, I untwist myself from the knot I'd fallen asleep as, and end up falling flat (but silent) on my rear on the ground below. Thankfully, at this hour the inside of the Cornucopia is pitch-colored, and I'm deep enough to be concealed in the folds of the metal anyways- that, or the charred remains of some lucky boxes.

I sidle slightly out, feet barely poking from behind a crate. A hand gripping ashes and metal, the other holding back hair from my eyes.

There's a table, sleek silvery and quite long for its burden. Four bags- they're marked by district number in large black, so even if they have the same tint I'll be able to pick mine out. The one that reads V isn't middling size, but it isn't the largest pack either. Would fit along my shoulders, would burden me a little- apparently, my trainers never noticed I prefer satchels or anything slung over rather than heavy on my back. And that way, I don't have anything to make a huge target out of me for an arrow from Twelve, if she didn't lose her quiver in the time I haven't seen her; or a knife from Two, and I know she still has knives. Her coat was lined with them, all like little marks on a ruler. Sunlight gleams off the pristine surface in a wide line along the rim, shadows are cast quickly and faint.

A clear day, but it won't remain as such. And I wait for a while, just to ascertain where my opponents are- I don't particularly wish to make off with my bounty and perish in my wild escape. I am raring to run, to just seize my damn little brownish-in-dawn bag…

Ah hells, I can't see them. Not too well, and I'm aching from my position. Well, the Careers went off to hunt for Twelve, who left off in… sort of that direction. I came from about there, sometime near last night. That slender tree looks like one I've slept under recently, even if the grass doesn't look so trodden. Then again, it's Capitol-planted, it won't look trodden unless there's drama to it, and waiting on some Tributes creeping up to kiss the edge of a clearing isn't anywhere near dramatic. And they're far away enough, if I shoot off in the opposite direction… not for an arrow, if that's what Twelve still has, but I'm out of knifing range. And even thrown-knife range, no matter the godly skills from the girl, the clearing is large enough to allow that.

So I run. A dart aside- a crate still clips my shoulder, and it stings but doesn't slow too much. I'm seizing the bag, slinging it around a shoulder and fumble with the straps as I take off at a dead run for the border where mercifully, nothing awaits. At least, not directly at the edge, not where anyone would be visible… but I'm good at losing pursuers in underbrush at the least. I'm Fox for something, and that stays with me beyond Five.

I should run, but I don't. Holding up this thing with only one strap hurts, the bag is heavy. Heavier than even the loads I carried back to the guild, or the ones I left off at home. And I'm even accounting for the times I didn't have to go for speed preservation. And from the sounds of a scuffle somewhat far behind me, I judge them to be already brawling it out, all the carnage the Capitol expects.

"Cato!"

It's a keening wail, desperate and torn from the panther-girl about to-

_Bang_. The sound is final and sounds eerily like salvation. One less dangerous opponent, and I'm infinitely better off if I only have to avoid lumbering oafs and a ranged girl. I scuttle sideways, further in, fast and erratic- there may be more people coming this way. Not too many, but one's more than too much.

There's something happening though, because the steps I know have to arrive take long to do so. And by then, I'm running full tilt again, uncomfortably burdened and I'm beginning to feel my pursuer catching up.

A tree, thick enough to conceal a scrawny girl. I dart behind it, jamming my shoulder into bark, and I see the bull from Eleven catching his breath, two bags slung on his shoulder. Tired- that must be some weight, but then he straightens up again and takes off.

Two bags. So much for one person, and I need not kill him off immediately. I think that Cato- that must be the boy from Two- will take off after the Girl on Fire. So I set off tracking him, assured that the clement weather will hold.

Of course, drama dictates it doesn't. Drama dictates a damning downpour, and for a moment when traversing a small shallow valley I do come close to dreading a flood. Drama dictates I slip and fall in a treacherous patch of mud and mosses, yelping in mild pain and surprise. I'm miraculously still hidden, even after his constant looks over his shoulder. Wet forest floor and curtains of rain gunning the silence are good help in this place at times, even if they've made tracking even this hulking target a pain.

I'm lucky enough to have him do the exact same thing. I'm lucky enough- and really, I wish I'd had this luck much earlier, I wouldn't be here- I'm lucky enough to have him too overburdened to stand up swiftly enough, or have the freedom of movement necessary to find the balance to remain up or even stand in a slippery surface. I've hoisted myself up already, aided by some low branches and check up on his struggle. It buys me some time to fumble through a couple of un-emptied pockets for a knife, wipe the silt off it. I even get to aim it, to properly think of the position of a heart, a main artery.

I throw the knife, and it slices too fast across the air. I imagined something slower, like when we watch the Games on the television and some moments are paused for the tension. Maybe because I'm not a Career, it's fast. Surprise might factor in for something.

Something dark blooms slowly across his back, and he lists hard to one side. Stumbles, half-catches himself on a slender tree so much stronger than it looks. I creep closer, not wanting anyone else to get first dibs on the loot he's about to relinquish.

He drops to the ground, the sound muted and heavy. I expected the knell of the cannon, or something more. A puny knife isn't enough to do him in apparently. I take aim again, faster this time and leaning heavily on a thick tree. Still as he is, I can probably be more accurate.

My second throw isn't anything showy. No shriek of soaring steel, no clanging of two knives spot-on over the same target. It actually goes too far up, sinking into a meaty neck. I panic and throw another blade, aimed for the chest, and this one does hit fairly well, side-by-side with the first one.

He has stopped moving. I suppose it's safe to close the distance, even without the-

_Boom._

Oh, there it is. And I guess it wouldn't be for the Girl on Fire, much less the remaining boy from Two. Besides me, who else remains…?

I can't think of anyone, so it must be the fallen boy in front of me. Up close, he looks younger- the menace is still there though, even in death. I cannot fathom how he picked up both bags- they're heavy with something that I don't think is food, unless they packed for weeks.

Well, they did say feast. I intend to feast properly- for the day, I've been sneaking bites from the first things I've reached within my bag.

The easiest pack to reach is marked XI, blotched with mud and incredibly heavy. One of the straps is caught on his arm, and I simply cut it.

I can't lift the thing though, not easily, and the weight throws me heavily to a side. I can't move fluidly, let alone run. I've never been exceedingly strong, and I'm assuming that whatever they packed here has to be at least as good as the food in mine.

From behind me, steps approach. Thinking fast, I grab the severed strap and lunge for the nearest clump of bushes, pulling the weight along. The ground is mercifully uneven and with a soft slope downwards, making the movement easy. With this rain, I probably don't have much to worry about tracking, even if the tracker is a Career. We're few and far between, and at any rate I pose a lesser threat and merit little notice.

But the boy from Eleven had his bag. I hope that even if he sees the huge one with XI marked bold missing, he won't jump after the nearest target. After all, I haven't taken his.

The slope I'm following grows irregular, and sounds clutter the air. A rush of water, I suppose, and-

Coldcold_cold_ohfor-

River. It's wide and roaring along stones either flecked with spray or soaked. I'll lose the bag if I keep moving forwards, and the banks are nothing remotely close to smooth. Or visible even.

I retrace some of my steps, cursing under my breath, and shove myself under the bowed branches of an overturned tree. It isn't exactly dry shelter, but the foliage is thick enough to conceal and it's better than lying unprotected under the storm.

I take a quick peek out- it's useless, the rainfall hasn't abated in the least and what could I hope to see anyways, since night has apparently fallen. Or at least, there's the screen with the Capitol logo hovering behind a veil of clouds and rain.

I scarf down the first of my proper feast under the shimmering face of the boy I killed not so long ago, and try to rub some of the mud off an apple on my dirty shirt.


	18. Sweet

The downpour went on for a night and a day more. I went from slightly dehydrated- because stolen rations don't last long, and I gulped down the water like no tomorrow- to willing to put a knife to the liquid by the time dawn rolled around again. I'm fed up with it. A river bed is already sopping wet, I've seen nothing to offer any shelter, and despite common thought, there isn't a canopy of leaves thick enough to ward off trickling water.

Maybe they expect the food to spoil, putting us in these conditions. We'd get fungi, or break the impermeable seals, or maybe something dissolves. Hasn't been the first time they would send starving tributes powdered meals, only to wash them away. Or render them unusable- there was one year where they just drained all the water off, and rendered that gift illegal.

That game was short, because there was only the one oasis right by the Cornucopia… and right in the Career's hands. A boy from Four won, mostly because he figured out later how to hide in the deep well of water.

I guess they Capitol hasn't realized no tributes from Four are still with us in body. Or maybe they want to quench the Girl on Fire, and dousing her with water might just work. I've been spared from any sort of flooding, but there's a risk for anyone else near a valley, or also sticking close to a river.

If anyone later cares- apart from the cameras, that is- I've toughed it out on the most makeshift of rafts ran 'ashore'. A tree rolled over by the storm and stuck across the widened rushing waters. It barely makes it to each side, I wouldn't declare it a sound structure or even a safe one and only luck has ensured that my supplies haven't been washed down the current. It is precariously attached to a bank by some tenacious roots, some stones that may be cameras and sound boosters and a tangle of underbrush. Above that side, a couple willows loom and wash their tresses in the silt-loaded waters. On that side, I currently find myself.

To whittle away the time, I eat. Not much, but I'm sure most of this won't keep for any length of time, no matter what I do. Or I swipe some long branches from one of my willows and play at being a weaver.

My sister used to be awesome at this, when there were willows in Five. A strand to be modified by the labs, planted excessively in some gardens and faculties. One of the schools even had a lawn covered in them, and the kids would constantly cut or bite off some branches to weave into clumsy anythings, into a braid, or just to whip around at leisure.

In reality, they wouldn't make for a nice whip. The longest I can get is barely the length of one of my legs and that is counting the knife-blade leaves adding length. And it doesn't have any sort of strength, if it breaks with anything. I've cut them off with my teeth, if they're low-hanging enough, and spit everything out once I'm done. With rainwater even- I've yet to hear of poisoned willows, but I won't discard that option. And if it's poisonous, well, I'll miss out. I've figured that I'm close to the endgame, and it's immediate death or nothing now. A poisoned blade might take too long, if it relies on anything applied to it… compared to a bow's range and power, or even a broken neck, poison is wasteful.

And I've braided some branches into my hair, so it better not be poisonous. With the rain, my hair is now sleek and tamable even by me. So I picked some braids, with willow whips in, just because it feels better than a matted, blotted mess of mud-streaked brownish red.

I wonder if I'm still some sort of Red by now at home. Fox, I've always been… and after this, always will be. I don't need a reflection to tell me I looked feral a couple minute-hours ago.

And I eat. Eat and braid and eat and watch curtains of rain fall before I drop asleep.

* * *

><p>I dream of home, surprisingly enough. I'm not a dreamer. I live to steal and survive, and that hasn't lent itself well to fantasies. At most, a vague thought of me as a dashing burglar, the type who'd make off with proper jewels rather than overpriced knockoffs (I'd retaliate by nicking them all, stuffing them into my mouth or into my clothes and vanishing). I'd wish for a proper hideout with lavish feasts, or maybe clumsy renditions of me (us really, the whole gang, but I only focus on me) in wanted signs with ridiculous bounties.<p>

They'd pick us off for execution. And that's what I dreamt, or something like it. When they had caught one of ours- who, I don't remember, but for a moment it looked like little Mouse in the required gray shift and trailing blindfold- and we'd all been present. Tied to the post, hair getting a weird shade of what I recognize as red, if only because I've been told that is it. The girl's hands are cuffed and thrashing about, because she knows better than us that this is coming.

Peacekeeper footsteps. They're the only ones with shoe soles that tap-slap the ground. Everyone else more or less glides quietly along, even the raucous kids. In Five, we don't make sounds by stepping. So the ominous tap-tap has to be a Peacekeeper.

(Somewhere deep, a half-awake me knows it has to be some sort of branch. But I'm not paying attention to that part of me)

And I had been in the crowd, that day, watching the young girl get gagged because she was screaming so loud and convicts don't get to panic in the Districts. That's a Tribute privilege, and aren't I glad?

I feel the gag close around my mouth then. See myself barely through the thin fabric of the blindfold, even if I can't see much else. Or a girl who looks like me, at any rate, hair done up in something pretty. Formal clothes, because who goes to a funeral in dirty clothes or not the best. Not even the dead. Except the girl (me) in front of the one-man firing squad.

The loose gray shift feels like hideous, torn and grime-stained Tribute clothes. Hood crumpled uncomfortably at my back. Some loot still in the folds, and somehow I haven't lost Wasp's gift of glassy beads on a chain. They're rolling somewhere in my chest, and they are the perfect signal, bright as they should be against beaten fabric.

The girl who looks like me and who I haven't stopped watching closes her eyes.

* * *

><p>I wake up expecting a bang. Not even a cannon shot, just a bang. Of a falling branch, or me tripping down into something solid. I do get the bright flash of something, but that was because on waking I had the misfortune of looking into the rising sun.<p>

Wait.

Sun!

At least, I'm faring better now. Sun means I can move, if not freely, then at least with less hindrance. And less slippery surfaces. I don't think anyone's been tracking me, or I wouldn't have woken up at all.

I shimmy along the tree trunk, reaching for the bank. Underbrush receives me, tangled and pricking at my clothes, but it's better than my previous position. I'm better when under cover and dappled shadows, rather than nearly out in the open. I had people to do that before, but I've made do with leaves.

The ground bears some scuff marks from shoes, and something being dragged along. It should be muddy, I note, but then again who knows for how long I dozed off. The sun is quite high.

But I also am right at the river's edge. This should be loamy and runny mud, not a dry and rock-solid surface. And the water's edge was swelled last night, reaching far and deep. I haven't dozed off for more than a day- I'd be ravenous- and therefore, something's wrong with the mud.

Maybe it's just some sort of Capitol mixture. A quick-dry, although who would have that I don't know. Or the foliage needed water. I can't have possibly checked the greenness in the deluge, and I'm not a good judge anyways.

I walk right along, into the deep part of the river. It's now just a gouge in the earth, no trace of moisture. Stones are embedded into the ground, along with some scruffy mosses. Cast off trash that I would've assumed the current carried off, except I remember eating something and tossing whatever the container was over the edge. So it got cut off during the night, along with the downpour. And completely dried out in some moment too, which eludes me.

It has to be a ploy then. Something to gather us remaining tributes together. It's also a neat time limit, since I doubt we'll get the water back any time soon. Quick rifling through my belongings reveals that somehow, I disposed of most my liquids. Somehow, because I don't recall it. Maybe I really was that dehydrated and famished, to go through juice and water as nothing. And alone as I am, I doubt I will get any of the needed supplies at any rate. My food stores have dropped a lot too- although I can't excuse myself nearly as well there- and the forest can't nurture me any more than I can. The only thing is that since I haven't been ambushed, I'm pretty much alone. The boy from Eleven is dead, and he was the closest other person.

Cato from Two must not be too far away, but I don't suppose he's close nearby either. He's the one who would've killed me in my sleep. Or at least, the one I expect that of, under the joyous and noisy approach to a kill. They're points for him, and maybe it doesn't count if the target's asleep. But I'm awake now, and I'm still not dead or dying, so he isn't here. Maybe he's tracking the girl who blew up the supplies, since she's cost him the game. I don't think he would've seen her, at any rate, but no girl's face has lit up the sky. So she has to be still at large, and I don't think she steals. If she blew up the Cornucopia, she has the skills to nurture herself from the forest- maybe she still has food. I don't even need it to be enough for two- I suppose I eat little. Or will eat little for the time being, if my binge on stolen food lasts.

I end up picking a route at random. Mostly- I don't fancy another trek through the woods for too long. And at least, the place where the river ran isn't completely dry… but it's too open. I could get easily seen and attacked… but maybe, not if I just follow it. There's enough underbrush, and the forest is thick. And most people would've stayed near water even with the downpour, unprecedented as it was, for the constant water supply. I dart into the foliage and shuffle down along the river, trying to gauge out where people could be.

Morning drifted by slower than I thought at least. A lot more peaceful too, with birdsong sounds loud above me and only my trodden shadow to keep me company. I swear, for being near absolute silence, I could grow to like the rustling of leaves and my own breath.

I loved the very human whistle more than that. Sounded like food and water and someone else to stalk until their supplies run dry.

Or the Games end. I'll take either of them by this point.

At my best thieving pace, I scamper to them. It is near impossible to glide through this mess of bushes, weeds and various low-growing plants. It doesn't matter much anyways, since the first person I see is a young man.

Back home, or even here I fancy, he would've been called handsome. Not even in a rugged way, like some of the other males who were here, but in a city-boy way- mild, hardworking, a bit of a tease and a consummate white liar. Sweet to the point of rotting teeth, maybe, and with the physical appeal that is making Capitol girls swoon. If they even can. I doubt that, if they're watching this, but pretty faces turn all heads. Maybe he's even gotten sponsors- there's the remnant of some almost-professionally cared for wounds on him. He looks clean, damnit, and this from a girl who was stuck all night under a rain shower.

There's some camouflage still stuck on him. Mostly faded, but it scares me a little. A lot. Okay, not on him- he's a hulking mass, and if I've caught him anything can- but if he's this tranquil he has something on his side-

Like food. I dance towards his back- he's come from there, at least- and dart along cautiously. If there is any stash, I want to sample it.

I'm surprised at the quantity. Some cheese, a shiny apple catching sunlight. A loaf of bread, warm when I pass my hand over it, some berries dark and little sitting dainty in a large pile. Whoever that boy was, he looked well-fed: they must've emptied their own stock in preparation for something that day. Tribute-hunting is my guess. Why not burn off all your supplies if you intend to make a fight and an end of it?

Pity. I don't fancy thieving from Cato. And it's not like I can convince any of them to not kill me on sight. If the boy is so calm, then he should be benefitted by the new rule set up some time ago. District partners get to live together- surely in the good of the star-crossed lovers from Twelve. So he has the girl who blew up the Cornucopia at his side. I'd feel safe with that, were I a boy and firmly trusting the Capitol to stand by its words.

I don't think that will happen. They want drama and heart-wrenching… I can't say love, or joy, or sadness. But they want something deep, and what's deeper than a loved one's death. They'll make them choose, I know… but for now, he's safe with the girl who sent all aflame.

Whatever they have will serve me well. I claw as daintily as I can at the cheese- it's a bit hard to do, considering I haven't done this in ages. You don't pick at packaged goods; you swipe a small amount of packages. The cheese is light, airy and with a faint fragrance- Capitol cheese, expensive and probably wholesome- and all I want to do is wolf it down. Not like this will last for long anyways, even if we draw it to a siege. One of them knows how to get food from their environment… and is probably the only one. Careers don't traditionally learn survival skills, and this boy is certainly relying on the girl to keep him fed.

It doesn't make for good drama.

So cheese. Some berries- they look juicy, even if I can't recognize them. The boy from Eleven had some which looked alike, and bringing them to my nose brings no particularly dangerous scent. Sweet, ripe. Then I pick at the rolls, even removing some crumbs from the ground. I can clean those on my shirt if I need to, because I don't need anyone tracking me by a trail of crumbs.

Somewhere close, I hear steps. Hastily I melt into the underbrush, withdrawing in silence. I'm not really fast, never have been, not even here. But I am still able to do it quietly and without disturbing the fluttering leaves or rustling the low-hanging branches.

I stumble until I'm in a small clearing- though that might be too generous a description for merely a break in the thick tangle of shrubbery- and curl up to eat. Some of the rolls and cheese goes first. They taste heavenly, if a bit plain for a Capitol meal. It could've been me taking a lonely picnic in Five, if the bread was half stale and the cheese nowhere near as good. All of the rolls and cheese now, because it's Capitol food and I'm unlikely to find anything near as fine for the time being.

I take my time picking a berry. They're all glossy, and I'm hard-pressed to pick out their color. I pick the darkest one out of the whole bunch, roll it between my fingers. It squishes slightly, a little drop of what I recognize as reddish juice staining the tips of my fingers. I pick a couple more, and do the exact same thing, in what passes for cleaning them. The rest I shove somewhere with care, in case I want to eat some more later.

Then I push them into my mouth and take a bite.

The sweetness is cloying, bringing my senses down.

Must be a Capitol strain of berry.


End file.
